


Dangerous Affection

by kyloewok



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alcohol, Anarchy, Angst with a not-so-happy ending, Armitage Hux is a Jerk, Assassins & Hitmen, Attempted Kidnapping, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Bilingual!Kylo, Blood Kink, Blood and Gore, Borderline Physical Abuse, Control Issues, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Death, Dom/sub, Drug-Induced Sex, Drugs, Dubcon or Noncon Moirallegiance, Dubious Consent, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Gang Violence, Gaslighting, Genocide, Graphic Description, Gun Kink, Heavy Gun Violence, Heavy Sadism, Hitman!Kylo, Hitwoman!Reader, Illegal Activities, Implied Gang Bang, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kidnapping, Kylo Ren is Not Nice, Kylo Ren is a sociopath, Kylo Ren is an enigma, Lewd smut, Loads of Blood Play, Manipulative Relationship, Masochism, Mass shooting, Mental Abuse, Money Corruption, Murder, No cuddling, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Partially Italian!Kylo, Partner Betrayal, Possession, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Public Sex, Reckless Driving, Reckless Endangerment, Russian Roulette, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Violence, Shameless Smut, Situational Humiliation, Snoke is Italian, The First Order vs. Resistance, Ushar is Bi, Utilization of forks as a weapon, Violent Sex, Wound Play, eventual domestic fluff, unhealthy dynamic, weapon play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-17 10:48:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 79,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29349192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyloewok/pseuds/kyloewok
Summary: Kylo Ren was cruel. Poisonous and diabolical.You were the assassin hired to fulfill the task of obliterating the anarchic man. Cutting the loose ends he had wired with your commuting "employers" the Resistance.Only instead of cutting those ties, Kylo Ren enraptures you with the rope of his deception, embracing you with a new tie that would forever hold you firm.You thought abolishing him would be easy: and oh... was this monster going to prove your judgement wrong.
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	1. Million Dollar Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Tesoro = Darling [lang. Italian]

Your disposition was callous. It was a deadly, but efficient way to carry yourself and your morals— or immorally speaking— your cruel standards. 

Your fingers skimmed along the rim of your martini. Saturated by the watery mildew that surfaced there. Eyes raking in your dignified, lavish surroundings. 

Where balding, opulent men clad in urbane suits curtsied and bowed for the women garbed in luxurious jewels and floor-length dresses. Where clusters of the polished and primped conversed in a sophisticated, neat manor. Chatting about the amounts of zeroes that edged the money accumulating in their bank accounts. 

The scarlet soles of your Louboutin's bounce softly upon the footrest of your barstool. It was a pacifying tick you had obtained just in these past couple hours. Although your occupation harbored immense, detrimental things, you were constantly high on adrenaline: and it made the apprehensions of what you do for a living less disarming.

You broadcasted your beauty by flashing amorous smiles to the bartender. Batting your eyelashes, making the men gush and nearly cream themselves. It was appeasing to know that your beauty was lethal enough to spin prowling men off their tracks. 

You've always been indulged with compliments that described your ethereal descollage as poisonous. The curves and sways of your body a fatal acid, that melted those victim of your beauty into liquid. 

Your leader and commuting best-friend, Poe Dameron, used you as a tactic to lure his most prized targets and quarry. He rendered you the ordeals and personas of your subjects, leaving the fate of the victim you acquired up to you. You were the curator of your casualties fate, and you were accommodating to this lifestyle. Learning to embrace the thrill of the hunt.

Despite the remorse that kindled and twinged in your gut, on occasion. 

Tonight was not one of those occasions. Tonight's subject left no room for grief nor remorse: only vengeance. The quantity of money you would inherit for terminating tonight's kill was your motivator. The sum would amount to a colossal pit of bottomless praise, money, and respect amongst your not-so-trivial peers that worked under the reign of the Resistance.

You flashed the bartender a subtle, coy grin. Your teeth glistening like pearls through your crimson-painted lips. Your eyes were locked on his sensually, as you hiked up the hem of your velvety black dress, that clung onto all of your sacred areas with the grip of a vice. You caressed the lace garner cladding your thigh. Fingers dancing along the crevices of the leather holster that was twined with it. Tracing the slick, glacial aluminum of your Glock 19. 

Skimming past your gun, you pinched the loose Marblero Ultralight that you housed in your holster between two fingers. Leisurely slipping it out as you made alluring eye contact with the middle-aged bartender. 

"Another martini?" He mused. Slinging his alcohol-blemished rag over his shoulder, shifting his weight to one foot.

"Mhm." You mustered with a nimble nod, lips sealing around the edge of your cigarette.

Your hand slithered down the top of your dress, where your cleavage tumbled from the condensed velvet. Snaking between the valley of your breasts, you released your lighter from the pad of your bra— the spot you always housed it. 

The bartender eyed you in his peripherals as he disappears to tend to other wealthy customers.

The lighter sputtered as the flame arose and hissed. Catching the tip of your cigarette ablaze with an amber glow. You hollowed out your cheeks as you raked in a steady heap of smoke, huffing a thick cloud out of your nostrils. You crammed your lighter back down your dress. 

You surveyed the bar through narrowed eyes. Through the clouds of smoke billowing through the whiskey-tainted air, it was hard to discern your target. You aspired for your eyes to engage with those of tonight's subject. Your appending prey was a piece of eye candy according to Poe: and the assemble of old, succulent men surrounding the bar were the opposite of enthralling. 

He was late. Poe warned you of his enigma ahead of time, so there was no room for you to be surprised.

The bartender replenished your martini, your fourth of the night. His eyes lingered on you as he sauntered along the bar and poured an array of drinks. 

Time ticked by tediously without a trace of your target. The notorious Kylo Ren. He was feared amongst those that habilitated themselves with the dangers of the criminal underworld. He was fear in itself. 

Sweat was accumulating on your hairline. Your confident facade was crumbling, as the patience fueling your forte starts to run low. You were growing weary by the second. 

You flicked the ashes off of the tip of your cigarette, watching as the grey soot cascaded down and down, peppering the countertop.

The bartender slid a quarter-full shot glass of tequila to you. Eyes hooded, thin lips screwed up in the corner, his smirk prudent. 

A ripple surfaced in your brow, as you blinked at him in befuddlement. Your eyes darted to the glass of tequila, then back to him. You scoffed and pawed the glass away, the residue smearing along the counter, as the bartender maintains his shrewd expression. 

"I didn't order a shot." You stated. Smashing the shriveling bud of your cigarette into the nearest ashtray, the smoke swirling through the warm air defeatedly. 

"The gentleman over there did." The bartender retorted, discreetly jutting his chin in a subtle gesture. Wiggling his eyebrows wryly. 

Reluctantly, you dared to glance over your bare shoulder. There a stranger sat gravely. Nearly sagaciously. His demeanor was cutthroat and callous. His apathy was tactile, supplying you with a pit of dread that burrowed deep within your core. 

That was your target. This mind-boggling, charming man, was the Kylo Ren you were hired to obliterate. 

His lethargic, honey-speckled shark eyes scrutinized you. Studied you attentively. His captivating eyes narrowed and intrigued. 

Monstrous hands adjusted the collar to his tweed, unbuttoned jet black blazer. The diamond pendants peppering his Rolex reflected the amber tainted lights that emitted from the chandeliers overhead. He was clad in an abundance of lavish clothing. Thin, alabaster white cashmere clung onto his toned chest. The material flexed to accommodate his brawny figure: threatening to burst at the seams. A few buttons were unclasped to reveal his glistening clavicle. 

Black tendrils of wavy hair cascaded around his face. Framing his brooding, romanesque features. You choked on your own saliva when he beckoned you deliberately with his long fingers, his sinister smirk lingering. 

You swiveled back around to face the bartender, heart lodged in your throat. You chugged the remnants of your martini in hopes of alleviating the pace in which your heart was pounding at. He replenished your drink, eyeing you with a hint of concern and amusement gleaming in his hesitant smile.

You flashed him a grateful grin, taking a sip of your fresh martini, before scooping it up and hopping off of the stool heedfully. 

Your heels clacked into the mosaic tile flooring. You swayed your hips and raised your glass in a victorious manor to the mystery man. He seared holes through your skin with his rapturing gaze. Dark eyes blatantly, leisurely, scrutinizing your body from head to toe. His tongue darted out to lick his plump, rouge lips. 

Without breaking the fatal eye contact you were engaging in with him, you chugged down the shot of vodka. The alcohol stung and scorned your throat as it slithered down, pooling in a fiery puddle in your stomach. Your face twisted into a grimace.

As you neared his booth— that he managed to dwarf with his massive, cumbersome frame, that leaned slothfully into the seat— you nearly choked on the stench of his pride. His aroma reeked of vain and malice, pairing with his earthy cologne, that clashed with the scents of his sins. 

His appealing nature was stirring the proclivity bubbling in your gut. It sparked and kindled a scathing flame of fascination inside of your veins. Pumping you full of toxic perseverance. His stoic and uncharitable expression was a depiction that he would be a tough shell to crack. As mentioned before: you loved the thrill of the hunt, and he was only fueling your mantra. 

You plopped down into the leather seat, shifting timidly under his ravenous stare. Nibbling on your bottom lip, as Kylo Ren drank in your appearance with tangible desire blossoming around the flower bed of impulse sprouting in his eyes.

His face was molded by the hands of a God. His broad jaw clenched. His aqualine nose was carved with diligence. His deep set eyes crinkled in the corners as he cleared his throat. Those honey-hazel orbs dispersing from yours, as he took an idle sip of his iced whiskey. 

His calloused hand dwarfed the glass. 

Your eyes darted to his plump lips. He licked them in response to your stare. His tongue swiped up the bronze liquid that tainted his plush mouth. 

The heat of his smug stare became excruciating. You blinked at him hesitantly, admiring his charismatic glory and deceptive personnel. For a few staggering seconds, you were enraptured by his prestige. Completely overlooking the inevitable certitude of your occupancy: you were hired to abolish this man. You were equipped to assassinate and dismantle his fetching face. Trained to revoke him of all vitality and life. 

"Thanks for the tequila." You slurred with a candied smile. Spit lapping up to be thicker than molasses as you gulped. "I prefer to down the whole bottle. The worm is the best part." 

He huffed in amusement, the low chuckle rumbling in his square chest. He loosely grasped his glass of whiskey, alluring eyes trapped on yours, as his lips ghosted the rim. He took a nimble sip. His adam's apple bobbed, the veins in his neck straining. 

"Impressive, tesoro." He tsked mundanely.

Tremors of temptation nipped at your legs and reverberated throughout your body when you were greeted with his baritone voice. The natural grit in his deep, husky tone, was intoxicating. 

"I wondered if a girl with the looks of you could handle a shot." He quipped darkly, lifting a finger from his glass to point at you.

You chuckled breathily, eyebrows furrowing in bewilderment. His tone was vacant of any emotion. Grizzly and monotone. 

You shrugged indolently, jangling the charms of your Hermés wristlet. "A girl with the looks of me?" You snorted with a cocked brow, poking and swirling your drink around with the toothpick and two olives that it housed. 

You brought the pick to your mouth and nagged one of the olives off, chewing with sealed lips. You took a subtle sip of your martini to wash it down as you flashed him a glare. 

He chuckled dauntingly, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "Yes. A beautiful, young woman." He flattered, smirking ominously.

He fumbled with the pocket adorning his blazer, releasing a silver cigarette box. Delicate embroidery and indents were carved into the sturdy titanium. A scorching crimson flushed over your cheeks.

He made prolonged, torrid eye contact with you as he used an old-fashioned lighter to spark his cigarette. He pinched it between two fingers, sucking in a lengthy drawl. He titled his head slightly to the side, his cigarette dangling from the side of his mouth as he held out the box and wordlessly offered you one.

You chewed on your bottom lip, the vague taste of lanolin and pigment transferring to your tastebuds as you contemplated his offer. You gingerly scooped one out, he huffed and exhaled the thick vapor, eyeing you through the billowing haze of smoke. 

His eyes followed your hand as you teasingly slipped it down the valley of your breasts and released your own lighter. His undereye twitched with temptation. His eyes danced along the expanse of soft, bare skin engulfing the modest areas of your collarbone and shoulders where the fabric of your dress should be. 

You studied the exterior of his cigarette with a sneer, as he observed you consequentially. Tapping his long fingers into the table deliberately. Coinciding with the melancholic tempo of Jazz that articulated through the speakers beaming overhead. The atmosphere in the club shifted ominously as he zoned in on you. 

You slipped the cigarette past your teeth, cupping the tip as you jutted out your lips and lit your second cigarette of the night. You hummed contently with an appreciative smile when you recognized the flavor; a Marlboro red. 

He sighed bleakly and rolled his broad shoulders, flicking his ashes into an ashtray. He poked his inner cheek with his tongue, his jaw set firm and his head still withholding that merely perceptible tilt as he analyzed your every fiber. 

Your chest swelled as you inhaled, waving the abundance of fog out of your face gently. Kylo Ren feathered a hand through his luscious locks, a coil of his black hair curling and dangling loosely in front of his forehead.

"What brings you here tonight?" His gravelly voice interrogated. Eyes narrowing skeptically. 

You dipped your finger into your martini, churning the murky alcohol around. "Having a few drinks." You retorted. Provocatively narrowing your eyes back, propping your forearm on the table. 

His eyes were black as he seared holes through your own. His teeth barred, gritting with pique. He exhaled through his nostrils. "I haven't seen you here before." He discerned stoically.

He smashed the cigarette into the ashtray and crossed his arms defensively, broadening his stature, puffing his chest. 

"Clubs don't always suit my interest." You scowled, your glare inexplicable. You dabbed the spark out of your own cigarette roughly. "I only come here on occasion."

He glowered into the rim of his whiskey, slurping it up aggressively. "And what's tonight's occasion, hm?" He purred lecherously, tilting his head. 

His nefarious eyes were cold and unprecedented. Guarded by cruelty. 

"My usual bar is starting to bore me." 

He hummed dully in response. His long finger traced the rim of his glass, spreading the bronze whiskey around with a look of contempt. "You drink alone often?" 

You stifled a bitter chuckle, "Yes, I do."

The silence he shot back was deafening. 

You quarreled through squinted eyes. His tense, acidic features softened deceitfully as he feigned a sigh. "I didn't mean to pry. Just interested, is all." His voice was rich and imperative, enough to make your knees wobble. You wanted to relish in the hint of tenderness etched into his dark tone, scribble it out to be an ounce of sympathy, just to submerge your turmoil. 

You nodded slowly. It was your turn to appear weary and dubious. His shift in demeanors was baffling. Despite the softening of his wording, there was a crucible edge to his tone. Even as the prominent features of his face relaxed, his aroma remained detrimental and scary in itself. 

"What's the occasion for you tonight?" You asked, changing the subject. You pawed a strand of limply curled hair over your shoulder. 

"Just my typical Saturday evening." He murmured coldly. Twirling his glass, distracted by the whiskey churning inside. 

"Drinking for fun or for comfort?" You jeered breathily, cupping your cheek in your hand, tilting your head. 

You admired the gleam in his eyes as he huffed humorously and shook his head, his raven locks bouncing with the abrupt motion. 

"Neither." He responded obtusely. His eyes raked in the silhouette of your frame trenchantly. Trailing up the exposed sector of skin that your revealing dress offered him. His gaze reached your bashful face and he clicked his tongue. 

"Tonight's about... Business." He paused and worded himself methodically, plastering on a shallow smirk. 

You were nescient in this moment: blinded by his charm. Oblivious and at his mercy, if he chose to have you that way. There were no exuberant red flags waving around to warn you of his immorality, for his existence was loud and demanding in itself. 

"Business?" You hummed. Stirring your martini around with an inattentive smile. You raised your eyebrows to determine your acknowledgment as you scouted out the club in search for a bartender. 

"Yes." He replied plainly. 

"What kind of business?" You asked curiously, hoping to elicit anything out of him, just for the scheme of things. 

"None of yours." He shot back sternly.

You stifled a scowl, glimpsing the face of his Rolex, the pristine silver hands pointing towards a quarter-til midnight. 

Enough games. Tonight was about business. The thrill of the hunt was over, and it was time to fulfill your ignoble tasks. 

A scuffle of fabric snapped you back into reality. You watched wearily as he tucked something shiny into the interior of his blazer. His features were cognitive, as he adjusted the collar of his shirt and cleared his throat. 

Your hand glided up the hem of your dress, fingers dancing along the subtle leather casing of your holster. You skimmed past your gun, making alluring eye contact with him as you felt the glassy hilt of your dagger, contemplating on which weapon suited your fancy for tonight.

A flicker of innocence flashed in his doe eyes: eliciting guilt to weave itself inside of your chest with a thick thread of repentance. Remorse was an uncommon occurrence for you. Especially when your target was similar to the brooding man that bled supremacy profusely in front of you. His strong hand was tugging at the metaphorical seams stitching your dignity together.

You hesitated for a few seconds, hand clammy and quivering beneath your dress as you instinctively curled your fist around the hilt and released it with a nearly incoherent clang. 

His eyes settled upon the surface of the table, searing holes through the granite and landing directly upon the spot you were concealing your dagger, almost as if he sensed it.

A diabolical smirk tugged at his lips. Menacing and Sinister. Your heart twinged with unease, as he downed the remainder of his whiskey and slammed the glass down. Buttoning a single button of his blazer as he ascended flawlessly from his seat with a grunt. 

He peered down at you with disdain, patronizing you with his conceited stare. His veiny hand twitched as he leisurely reached for you. You recoiled instinctively, slipping your dagger back into the holster discreetly, just as the calloused pad of his pointer finger connected with the bottom of your chin. He tenderly tilted your head up to greet him.

He folded at the waist to be eye-level with you. He towers over your meek frame and casts a venomous shadow over you. 

"We will see each other again." He stated prudently, as if he were clairvoyant. 

His finger abandoned your chin and he eased his large hands into his pockets. "I would advise leaving the dagger at home next time." He warned sullenly, feeding off of your nervous, cowardly nod. "Wouldn't want anyone getting hurt, now would we?"

You opened your mouth to refute his arrogance, only for your words to shrivel and die once they prepared to escape your tongue. You blinked at him in disbelief as he tossed a wad of cash— at least two hundred dollars— onto the table and pivoted for the exit. 

You were puzzled. Yes— you were knowledgable on his malevolent reputation. No— you did not expect all the constellation over his immorality to be true. All of it was piecing together: his bounty was the highest you've ever seen. His ploys were so depraved and warped, that nobody was granted access to the files that involved the background of his schemes. 

You were dancing with the Devil, following through with this assignment. 

"Can I get another drink over here?" You breathed in exasperation, snapping your fingers in regards of catching a bartender.


	2. The Hit-woman

"Check the breachments from 2014. His name has to be in at least one of the criminal records." Poe breathed, the exasperation poignant in his tone.

He scanned through the contents of the file he obtained from Organa; your leader. Leia Organa exaggerated the significance of this assignment. She bestowed her loathing for Kylo Ren upon you, expressing her urgency for you to fulfill the task of obliterating him. Without divulging you with her reasoning for this bitter-hatred she harbored.

Of course— Kylo Ren was notoriously dangerous, and hated by an abundance of people that strayed far beyond just Organa. The only difference was, all of those people were too frightened by his complex, cruel disposition to ever tamper with him. Organa on the other hand, was fearless. She nearly presented herself as the type to embrace the dangers of hunting a man as daunting and infamous as him. 

Poe was severely devoted to Organa. He was held accountable for every target, every task, every feat that the Resistance must complete in order to remain afloat in detrimental waters. 

He was ordered to deliberate your scheme that involved prying information out of Kylo Ren. He had conveyed and conspired a plan with Organa after the assignment failed on the first night, to make sure things sailed smoothly and accordingly the second time around. 

Little did they know your failure was a result of his enigma and conniving charm. There was no plan that could fix your flaw under his suave.

You sigh, the muscles in your fingers cramping up, as you continue to arduously slam your fingers into the keyboard of your desktop. Fruitlessly, and bleakly, searching for some answers behind the mysterious Kylo Ren.

You knead the back of your neck apprehensively. Sucking in a sharp breath, you search up the illegal breachment records from early 2014. 

You surveyed over sixteen pages of useless information. You scanned every file that the darkest depths of the web could supply you. Waiting hopefully, for your eyes to saunter across a file or record that proved the immortality of Kylo Ren in documented form. It was a simple, but desolating task. Especially when you found nothing. No dirt, no muck, no tracks scuffing along his name.

Organa wanted you to discern all of his... illicit acts, before you followed through with the assignment. She scolded Poe for refusing to permit you with information on your target in the first place, insisting that he aids you in uncovering all of the unlawful prosperities of your casualty.

So far, all you have obtained was the information easily displayed for the public. He was a wealthy co-owner of a bustling corporation, funding businesses located in New York, Chicago and Las Angeles. Long story short, he invested in multi-million dollar companies, co-owning with an unknown source as the head executive. That was all you could find, and it was out for the taking.

Despite the fraudulences he was surely involved in— drug busts, shoot-offs, money laundering's, contract killings — he managed to clear his name entirely. 

"From what I gather, he is extremely meticulous about things." You suggest, tossing Poe a bleak look from over your shoulder, popping an Ultralight past your lips, lighting it briskly. "He seemed extremely well-put. We're going against someone powerful here."

Poe clicks his tongue in disagreement, releasing an agitated growl. He was feverishly flipping through an array of tangible-documents at his desk. He shoots you a glare from over his shoulder. 

"You know you aren't supposed to smoke in here." He appoints, eyebrows raised, as he continues shuffling through the files.

You swivel around in your squeaky office chair, sighing, slothfully laying slouched in it. You eyed around the drab interior of the office. It wasn't much, but it was enough to keep the complexities of the Resistance's schemes discreet and under wraps.

Poe snorts in the oxidizing scent of your cigarette as the smoke billows through the air, and he sighs defeatedly. "Pass me one." He mumbles, and you chuckle at his failure to comply to his own "no smoking in the office" mantra. 

You scoop a Marlboro Ultralight out of the box, tossing it to him, as it thuds dully and rolls around on the surface of his desk. 

Out of sheer boredom, you start to huff out sloppy O shapes with the smoke, pivoting around in your chair. 

Poe scoffs, flashing you an irritated scowl. "You could also make yourself useful, you know." He breathes mundanely.

You shrug. "It's not my fault he's stealthy." You grumble, sighing, making a scene out of forcefully slamming your fingers into the keyboard to irk him.

"We need the information. The sooner we finish this, the sooner you are free of this case." He says, pillaging through the piles.

You roll your eyes, pursing your lips in concentration, as you obliged his orders and searched aimlessly through the virtual files. Finding nothing, as expected.

Poe starts to pace the floor, eyes frantically raking in the crumpling documents, uttering curses to himself.

"Poe." You snap, massaging your temple in annoyance. You shoot him a warning look. "Your stress is contagious. Just calm down. Ren isn't going anywhere anytime soon." 

He heedfully threads his fingers through his chestnut, coiled hair, slowing his pace.

"I can figure this out." You add, eyes doe and reassuring, tranquil in a way, as you dab out the ashes of your cigarette. "I'm sure I can convince him to share something."

Poe laughs manically, "Oh, really?" He patronizes, hands on his hips, bitter smile tugging at his lips. "And how do you plan on doing that?" 

I can think of a few ways...

"Don't underestimate my power, babe." You quip with a featherlight grin, shrugging, turning back around. 

Time ticked by tediously, as you searched and dug to no avail, being rewarded with nothing. Poe begrudgingly released you for the night, once the clock flickered to a time far beyond midnight, and he could detect your exhaustion. 

You powered off the computer, clearing and disheveling any and all proof of your surf through all of those illegal documents. With a little bugging, they weren't hard to find, they could always be accessed again.

You gather all of your belongings, tidying up your space. You glance at Poe from over your shoulder, as he belligerently rubs his face with his hands, groaning. 

"Hey." You coo softly, coming up behind him, groping his tense shoulders tenderly as he sighs in relief with the brief massage. "I need to pick something up from the printer. Want to come with me?"

He ponders, contemplating, as you rub your thumbs deep into his shoulder bones. "Come on..." You coax, standing on your tiptoes and looming over his shoulder to smile innocently at him. "You need a break."

He nods defeatedly, and you release his shoulders leisurely, taking a step back as he stretches his aching limbs. He ascends to his feet, scratching the back of his head, yawning. He slings his coat over the crook of his elbow, accompanying you down the foyer.

Heading to the printer room, you shuffle through the door, heading straight for Printer #3, that was always correlated with your computer. Your eyes glaze over the paper, the stale scent of fresh ink basking in the air, as you smile down at your discovery. You fold the paper into a portable square, sliding it into your coat pocket. 

***

Thick, velvety blood gurgled from the mans goblet. You twisted the dagger, feeling it sheathe through his flesh, gritting your teeth. Adrenaline was kindling like a flame of impulse, pumping dark perseverance through your veins. Your heart thumped and rattled in your throat, and your breaths toppled past your lips in quick spurts.

Crimson sputtered from the raw slash protruding the mans throat. His body thrashed and spasmed underneath you, and you shifted your hips down, straddling him securely, keeping him pinned down to the bed as you sliced through his pudgy flesh.

His eyes flickered, pupils trembling, as an eerie darkness filtered out the color of his pale blue eyes. Lips twitching, blood dribbling from his mouth, eliciting gags and burbles from the back of his throat. 

You rip the dagger from his throat aggressively, sending droplets of blood pummeling through the air, splattering all over your feverish face. The gnarly, raw, peeling flesh gushed and poured down the sides of his neck, staining the sheets, his breath hitching in brisk-like chokes.

He heaves, gurgling, sputtering. Before there's silence, and the wriggling, struggling body beneath you just freezes. Except for the occasional twitch, the mans frame was completely unmoving.

You rested on his lifeless figure for a second, panting, recollecting yourself after the euphoric... twinge of adrenaline, that churned in your gut. The warmth emerging from his body was slowly fading to be a dull linger of his previous existence.

Your hands were stained crimson, painted with the wrath of your immoral assignment, the crevices harboring an immense amount of dried blood. You smeared the majority of it off on the mans white tank top. Once you smudged the wet blood off, you tumbled off of his body, rolling into the wrinkled sheets. 

You sigh through puckered lips, swiping the grease off of your forehead with your forearm, hauling a string of blood across your clammy skin. You stared at the man for a moment, taking a mental-snapshot of your ethical, but messy work. It was a shame that he refused to pay off the debt he owed to the pesky outlaw whom hired you, because he was decent in bed. Better than the rest of your targets.

You plop off of the bed, the mattress groaning in response. You shimmied back into your skimpy, silky white dress, grimacing when you notice the dots of blood that managed to speckle it. You smoothed it out, wobbly slipping back on your heels, glancing at the time on your phone. 

It was nearing 8:30. The time you were designated to meet Kylo Ren at his favorite nightclub, in the more upscale and opulent sector of New York. According to your profound research, he occupied the bar every Saturday evening. He considered it his lavish, remotely quaint dominion.

Scampering out of the mans apartment complex on the east end of the Bronx, you saunter to your car, lazily disguising yourself with a pair of shades. 

The drive to the club was brief and easy enough, considering that it was only about ten minutes away, and the traffic had dialed down significantly. 

The exuberant little chime of your phone indicated that the ten-thousand dollars for assassinating your target had entered your deposit without hassle. Apparently, he had done someone extremely dirty in order to have a bounty that high dangling over his head.

Turning into the club, you eye the parking lot charily. You were informed that Kylo Ren drove a polished, cherry-red Lamborghini. All of the cars in the lot were bleaker than the cloudy sky. He was going to be late, again. Surprise, surprise.

Darkness was encompassing the sky, as the sun set somberly, and the auburn-gleaming street lights surrounding the club flickered on. There was no sign of Kylo Ren, or his luxurious, vibrant car. You sigh, propping your elbow on the windowsill, drably surveying the entrance of the club. Hoping he would arrive soon, so you could go home and pour yourself a glass of wine and lounge for the remainder of your chaotic evening.

It was damn-near an hour, when the screech of brakes clamoring caught your attention. You straightened your posture, peering through the windows with narrowed eyes. A glistening black Cadillac rolled to a halt near the entrance. You could hear the door slamming shut, as somebody hopped out and trudged into the club. The car was obscuring your vision; you couldn't see whom exactly this somebody was.

You thought it could be any other wealthy occupant of the bar as opposed to Kylo Ren. Every single customer of that club was rich and opulent, there was no proof that it could be the mystery man you were looking for.

After another tedious hour, you started to doze off. Drifting into a merely conscious trance, as fatigue starts to overwork your body. Your temple was resting upon the window, as your eyelids flittered.

That was when a belligerent, demanding pound on the pane of glass resounded around your car. You jolt, springing upward, glancing around with pure alertness stammering in your chest. You blink multiple times, trying to digest the loud, abrupt sound. 

You see a colossal, daunting silhouette looming by your window. Your heart pulsates in your throat, as you reluctantly roll down the window, squinting to adjust to the dull lighting emitting from the towering lamp posts.

"Fuck." You whisper, startled, when your eyes rake over the formidable Kylo Ren.

Demeanor indiscernible, features deadpan, those dreamy, golden-hazel eyes glistening with contempt as they bore into yours.

He scrutinized you, studying every undertone of your blood-peppered face. He hummed gruffly to himself, the grumble a snarly disapproval that rumbled in the back of his throat. A venomous smirk pulled at his lips.

His thumb outstretched and caressed your skin; you recoiled instinctively, only for his calloused fingers to snatch your jaw and hold you firmly in place. He used his thumb to calmly lap the blood that was flaking on your chin, removing his hand from your face, examining the half-dried blood with that sickeningly mundane expression.

Your cheeks flushed rouge with sheepishness, as you watched him lethargically roll the dollop of blood between his thumb and forefinger.

“Mia oh mia, donna pazza.” He murmurs, tongue tweaking perfectly as he sufficiently utters a phrase in Italian.

He leans forward, propping his forearms onto the windowsill. A charming, prudent little grin creeped onto his face. A glint of satisfaction beamed in his darkening eyes that imperatively zoned in on you. 

"Someone's been busy." He observes, murmuring lowly, tilting his head.

A coy smile ghosts your lips. He made you feel feeble, small and powerless beneath his stare. It was just the effect he had.

He sighed through his nostrils, popping a cigarette into his plush mouth. He cupped the tip with his veiny, tattooed hands as he lit it briskly with his lighter. Inhaling a heap of smoke sharply, pinching the slender stick lazily with two of his long fingers.

"So have I." He adds, voice monotone, as he crosses his bulky arms that strain through the material of his blue button-up and props himself against your car. Taking another drawl of his cigarette, nodding to himself, narrowing his eyes.

You eyed him, a ripple surfacing in your brows. He was clean, composed, completely tranquil and eerily normal. Not a hint of his crimes tainted his skin, nor blemished his clothes.

He smirked, huffing in amusement, noticing your bewilderment. "I don't like to get my hands dirty." He muses, puffing on his Marlboro, shoving the crisp sleeves of his shirt up. 

Your intrigued smile deepens at his statement. This made it blatant that he had... helpers, or a team, that supported his egregious acts.

"Bored of your regular bar, again?" He interrogates, voice dropping a few octaves, as he strokes his jaw with the hand housing his shriveling cigarette. Radiating prudence.

You plaster on your poker-face, biting your lip provocatively, resting your elbow on the windowsill, fiddling with your earlobe.

"Well, I was hoping to run into you, again." You flatter, smiling. Seducing your way into his enigma seemed like the ideal way to worm yourself into his mind.

He snorts. "Did you expect to entice me by showing up covered in blood?" He gestured languidly with his cigarette, calmly swiveling around to collect another droplet of blood off of your cheek. 

You gulped, feeling perturbed under his penetrating stare. You met his dark, haunting gaze regardless. Watching with a kindle of warmth in your core as he brings his thumb to his mouth, softly suckling and licking off the blood, chuckling sinisterly when he watched the way you shuddered. 

"Because it's working." He utters, voice husky and dripping with carnal malice.

He shucks his cigarette to the ground, smushing it with his leather oxford, exhaling the remnants of smoke through the corner of his pink, plump lips. You let out a quivering breath, heart racing, studying his every motive.

"Aren't you gonna come in for a drink?"

You let out a nervous chuckle, "I think I'm gonna... head home for the night."

His jaw clenched, eyebrows formulating into a hardline, "I said, aren't you coming in for a drink?" He seethes.

You swallow. "Yes."


	3. Let’s make a Deal

It's been a week since your last "visit" with Kylo Ren. New bar, no new gigs, just a night dated for raunchy, untamed fun.

The strobe lights were an array of coruscating colors, that ricocheted off of the walls. Illuminating the exotically humid space. The music was loud enough to rattle the carcass of the bar, thumping and bopping.

You stumbled in your heels with a breathy giggle, entangled in a moshpit, chugging another shot. You've had a handful, cutting lose for the evening, trying to bask in the rare night-off you had acquired.

Sweat greased your forehead, as swaying bodies clustered the dance floor, squishing and cramming into you. You grunt, hiccuping, staggering through the lively crowd, agilely shoving past people. On the hunt for your friend, Nora, whom chose to accompany you on your night out.

You found her cozying up with a burley, older men, internally cheering her on, as she flatters him and nestled up in his lap. Flashing him the classic nymphet eyes. You settle for leaving her to tend to her scandalous ordeals, and dispersing from the crowd instead. You had a copious amount of drinks, and the intoxication was starting to catch up with you.

Being tipsy had its advantages— it made it easier to burrow the complications of your appending duties down deep, and just blissfully indulge in this one time opportunity at unbothered fun. Between the ecstasy drugs you and Nora conveyed and the alcohol, you were gone. Floating around in your personal bubble of unorthodox partying.

You've been engrossed with the Kylo Ren assignment for weeks now, and Poe wasn't making it any simpler with his constant nagging and lurking. 

You managed to creep away from the crowd and situate yourself against a wall. Your blurry vision consumed the sight of carefree partiers, as you fisted your hair into a makeshift ponytail, to ease the beads of sweat accumulating on the nape of your neck.

You fan out your sweaty face, the lack of hydration and the robust amounts of dancing you did clashing together. Your cheeks were flushed crimson, your throat was dry and parched, nausea churned in your stomach, and a migraine nipped at the walls of your brain.

After recollecting yourself for a moment, you wearily shove yourself off of the wall, stumbling, your ankles rolling and threatening to buckle. You brace the wall for stability before regaining your footing, wobbling through the bar, eyes squinted to accommodate the colorful strobe lights that flicker exuberantly. Your search for water to quench your thirst was only beginning. This would be a long trip across the bar.

Your murky, discombobulated gaze drifted to a tall figure looming in the crowd. You froze, staggering to a halt, blinking. 

It was Kylo fucking Ren.

He was sauntering through the crowd, forcefully shoulder-checking and nudging through, towering over the vigorous dancers. He stuck out like a sore thumb, brawny and opulent, reeking of abhorrence and stealth. His immorality bled off of him like poisonous radiation, deadly enough to knock somebody out.

His eyes were strictly casted to you, narrowed and earnest, jaw clenching stoically.

Your breath hitches, eyes wide and befuddled, as you reluctantly peel away and start to maneuver away from him. He glowers, barring his teeth, aggressively plowing through the drunken people with little-to-no concern on whom he harms with his cumbersome strides.

You thought you escaped him by blending into the crowd. The warm, calloused hand that snatched your shoulder said otherwise.

You gulp— your throat thicker than molasses, as you swivel around leisurely to face Kylo Ren, and all of his suave, earthy charm. 

The musk of his cologne instantly wafted into your face, rich and tantalizing. You greeted him with a slow, perplexed blink. 

He stared back at you mundanely. 

"Mm." You smile cheekily, nose scrunching up as you slur out your next words. "You're a bit overdressed, don't you think?"

He takes a steady step closer to you. Neck craning to peer down at you, his raven, wavy locks framing his face like dark drapes. Revealing the tattoos that were engraved into the sides of his neck, ones that are wickedly symbolical and usually obscured by his shoulder-length hair.

"Why are you here?" You hum, suspicion lacing your slurred tone. 

The striking neon colors of the strobes were cascading down, illuminating his brooding, blank face. Painting his skin in an abundance of colors. He remains silent. 

"Business, again?" You ask.

He blinked at you, jaw clamped, teeth gritting. He feathers a long, tattooed finger through his dark main. His disposition was extra unsettling when you could merely fabricate the expression on his face through the haze of alcohol. 

Your eyes were bloodshot. Mascara was smudged along the brim of your eyelids. Your skin was clammy and damp with perspiration, reflecting the colorful lights.

"You could call it that." He says, eyes flickering around your face, examining every crevice. His nostrils flare, "Business and self-interest, I suppose." He breathes, peering down at the diamond face of his luxurious watch. His eyes tediously fall back to yours, lips pursed.

"Lets take a seat somewhere." He suggests, voice grave and hoarse, as his palm flattens on your lower-back and pivots you around.

"Why?" You hummed, wiggling your eyebrows as you wobbly trailed behind him. 

He guides you to the main bar, where you climb up one of the high-rise barstools, wiggling in the leather seat. He stiffly looms at your side, calmly propping one elbow on the counter, facing you with bland earnest. The bartender approaches heedfully.

"Whiskey on the rocks." Kylo mutters, acknowledging the bartender with an idle had of dismissal. His hazel eyes inattentively follow the bartender as he scampers away to tend to his order. "Why are you here, then?"

You shrug, slouching, whining softly under your breath. "Just for fun." You huff. 

He hums, supplying you with a mellow, bleak nod. His whiskey arrives, and he takes a brisk swig of it, swiping his tongue across his lip to savor the hefty taste. 

"What kind of business are you here for?" You ask with inquisition. 

He glares at you discreetly in his peripherals. "I thought we already established that our business was classified." He grumbles matter of factly, rolling his broad shoulders.

"It was a suggestion, not an establishment." You quip prudently, raising your eyebrows and shrugging playfully.

He takes another nimble sip of whiskey, swirling the bronze liquid around. Disregarding your jeer, for now.

"Then I suggest we keep that information to ourselves." He murmurs, tone monotone, as he adjusts the cuffs of his button-up shirt.

"Whose it gonna hurt to do a little small talk?" You snap boldly, cocking a brow, cupping your cheek and eyeing him curiously. 

"You're persistent." He sneers, growling, the tendons in his jaw flexing. His grasp around his glass of whiskey tightens.

You have to stifle a chuckle, chewing your inner cheek to suppress your prideful, expanding grin. 

"You're stubborn." You shoot back, giggling when he snickers darkly at your quip. 

He shakes his head, tsking, licking his lips clean of liquor. There was a prolonged beat, as his conniving smirk lingers on his alcohol-tainted lips. Before he clears his throat, and swivels to face you, fully undressing you with his corruptly gleaming eyes. 

He probed you with a wickedly salacious stare, a serpent-like grin slithering across his face. He clicks his tongue.

"What?" You squabble, eyebrows furrowed, heart racing, as he devours you with his warped gaze. 

"How badly do you want to prove yourself worthy to Organa?" He asks, mumbling, words clairvoyant and knowledgeable.

Your heart stammered. Clearly, you were not the only one capable of doing research on your opposer. Your enemy, if you will.

His monstrous, calloused hand creeps over to your thigh. "What would you do just for me to talk?" He purrs, squeezing and groping the squishy flesh of your thigh. 

You nibble on your lip, blinking at him with virtuous doe eyes, eyebrows furrowed as you pondered. Goosebumps were lining your skin, as he caressed, gliding his hand up your thigh leisurely, smoothing up higher and higher. Nearing the hem of your scandalous dress.

"It depends on the value of your words." Your chin quivers as you release an unsteady breath.

He hummed gravely in appreciation, his large hand continuing its obscene journey up your thigh. Traveling higher, past the hem, applying a light, desirable pressure with his fingertips. Your cunt tingled when his hand started to knead your inner thigh, only inches away from your warm, wanting pussy.

"Let's make a deal." He spoke low and firmly, studying the microscopic twitch of your face, as his fingers started to unravel and near your yearning heat. "The information is yours... if I get to have you for the night." He drawls.

His finger pries your wet folds apart through your panties, pinky brushing your clit. Your legs twitch at the ghostly graze of skin, breath hitching. His lips were corked into a wry, daunting smirk, as he hummed throatily, and started to rub precise circles into your clit. You clamp your thighs around his hand and whimper. 

"I'm not a prostitute." Your voice trembles with bliss. Breaths building up in the back of your throat in labored spurts. "I won't s-sell my body for your benefit." 

You mewl in protest when his hand removes itself from beneath your dress, snaking up to the counter, resting there calmly. 

He chugged the remnants of his whiskey, slamming the glass down victoriously. "I'll say it again." He repeats mundanely, snatching your jaw, angling it to face him and his God like, romanesque features. "I'll talk, If you follow me to that little bathroom, right now."

He spoke lowly, murmuring, looming close to your face as he angles your head to face the grimy restroom in the back corner of the bar. Holding you there, steady and demanding.

You glance back at him, dreary eyes locking on his sobered, honey-speckled ones, that sparkled with sinister intent. His classic, cunning smirk was touching his lips.

"Fine." You submit, releasing a hefty heap of air through your nose, smoothing down your dress nervously. "But... we won't ever talk about this again. Got it?" 

"Why would I want to speak of this?" He grimaces faintly, whipping around to glower at you scornfully. "Don't flatter yourself."

He circles your wrist, lugging you off of your seat, hauling you through the condensed crowd. His thumb was burrowing blotchy bruises into your wrist-bone, guiding you firmly through the colossal mass of partiers. 

You were light-headed, delirious, struggling to digest the proposition you just succumbed to. All you could discern, were the wails of sirens blaring in the back of your mind, warning you not to go through with this. 

The thunderous music was drowned out by the chipped walls of the slender hallway winding to the restrooms. Kylo Ren was maneuvering you through with languid, but meaningful strides. Crumpled trash loitered the tiled floors, that reverberated the wobbly clicks of your heels and the clacks of his Oxfords.

He nudged the haggard door of the men's restroom open with his elbow— where the shirt he was clad in was bunched up at the crooks of his elbows— trudging along the tiles, scuffling over crinkled paper towels and litter. The scattered trash bristled beneath the point of your heels. 

Your eyes rake in your surroundings cautiously, flashing to the wide-brimmed mirrors. They were tarnished with a layer of muck, that had accumulated over time.

He abruptly came to a concluded stop in the center of the dull, outdated restroom. His back heaved for a few beats, the tendons of his muscles flexing through his shirt. He lethargically pivots to face you.

His face was stoic, a figurative masquerade displaying dark, lecherous desire upon his features. His demeanor was lasciviously dangerous. His adam's apple bobbed with the force of his swallow. He gestured to the sink domineeringly, his eyebrows set in a stern hardline. 

"Face the mirror." He demands.

Your cheeks tingled, glowing a sheepish shade of crimson, as you shamefully obliged. Strutting over to the mirror. You braced the porcelain and steadied yourself, shoulders squared apprehensively, as you reluctantly met his stare through the mirrors reflection.

His jaw was stringent and clenched. Tongue darting out to wet his lips. His eyes were black with savage, animalistic infatuation— the predatory stare of a carnivore finally preying on its meek little quarry.

Your eyes shamefully drop to the sink, watching dolefully, as water droplets rutt from the leaky faucet gingerly. Trying to simmer out the sudden arousel bubbling and scathing in your core by the mere sight of his libido.

The solid, emphatic clatter of his leisure steps ricocheted off of the walls. Producing echoey, eerie clacks. He prowled up to you— creeped— taking his time to fuel the pliable longing building within your body.

His calloused palm pawed at your hip, forcing your ass back, thumb massaging your hipbone. Your breath hitches, and he lets out his signature, gruff hum of satisfaction, approval. A line of goosebumps trickled upon your skin, conveying dots of bliss all the way up your spine.

His hand belligerently offered you a brisk shove forward. You squeak, as he pins your frame to the basin, your pelvis being pressed the glacial-porcelain. Your skin crawls with a conjunction of longing and trepidation.

You suckle your bottom lip between your teeth. There was bristle of fabric— and then, a microscopic, but prominent click.

Your eyes lift in terror, falling upon the steady hand of Kylo Ren— that aims a gun straight at your scalp. The frisky, uninviting muzzle was lodged into a chunk of your hair.

Your eyes nearly bulge out of your head, as you release a shaky gasp, suddenly, as sober as you have ever been. 

You subconsciously squeeze your eyelids together, earning you a wry, prudent chuckle from Kylo, as he prods the muzzle of the gun deeper into the back of your head.

"You are just such a dirty little whore..." His grave, baritone voice trailed off, as he started to run the muzzle of the gun down the side of your neck.

Your lips quivered, when he firmly tapped the crease of your jaw with the tip of his gun. Your eyes heedfully flicker back open. 

His penetrating gaze was captivating yours through the mirror. You gulp, keeping your eyes bravely trained on his as opposed to the loaded gun poking at the back of your head.

He traced the pliant skin of your neck with his gun, pushing his bulge into your ass, sheathing you further against the basin. Dragging the tip of his gun down the expanse of your collarbone. Billowing down to the flesh of your breasts, that toppled from the top of your condensed dress and accentuated your cleavage. The cold metal pushes through your breasts, slithering down the valley.

His warm breath wafts into your ear, stimulating, awakening an agonizing need inside of you. He clicks his tongue.

"Exchanging your body for my words?" He muses mundanely, snickering, as he observed the way your breathing patterns escalated. "You filthy slut." 

The gun slips away from your cleavage, kneading and tracing eerily tranquil patterns into your collarbone.

"Say it." He demands, his tone monotone and his words a husky whisper. His eyes continue demolishing your sanity, fiber by fiber, with that glow of disdain and wild inclination.

You refuse to respond, shifting away from the frisky point of his gun. His nostrils flare, teeth barring, as he forcefully swivels you around, slamming your back into the brittle basin. Shaking the entire mirror with his agile movement. 

He fisted a chunk of your hair in his hand; you gasped, as he roughly lugged you backwards. Pining you down by prodding his hips into yours, grinding his monstrous cock into your pelvis— thrusting the muzzle of his gun past your lips. Your eyes were glossy and pleadful, as you reluctantly sealed your lips around the tip of the cold gun-metal. The coppery taste relinquished on your tongue.

His features were compressed into vacancy, unbothered and bleak. The evil glint in his eyes only portrayed... entertainment.

He aggressively tilts your head back by the cluster of your tousled hair, neck straining and pulsating, as he snaps it back. You study him apprehensively from the length of your nose, breath hitching. 

"Say you're a filthy whore." His words were hot like whips of raw malice. Laced with abhorrence, and figments of lust. He jerks your head back harder and growls, "And I will reconsider sending this bullet straight down your fucking throat." 

You nod arduously, the panic bubbling and churning in your gut, as you whimper around the muzzle of his gun— in which he rewards you by tediously slipping it out of your mouth. A ribbon of saliva connects your drolly lips to the head of his gun. He brings it to his mouth, lapping up the spit that taints the tip, suckling it clean. He cocks a brow.

"I'm a dirty, filthy whore." You rasp. Your voice trembled with a sense of turmoil. You squeezed your thighs together to alleviate the craving for stimulation that was pulsating between your legs. Your cunt drips and throbs at the sight of him, drinking in every warped detail of your easy submission. 

"That's right, bitch." He sneers, hands feathering through your hair and grasping your scalp, pummeling you down to your knees.

You seethe, as your knees crackle and blemish from the forceful impact. He utilized the leather tip of his Oxford to brutally angle your chin up. He was towering over you, suffocating you with the scent of his menacing musk and daunting desire.

He holds the tip of the gun to your forehead, expression deadpan, lacking morality. "Undo my belt." He orders. His raven locks were silky with humidity, billowing into his face.

You nod, clammy fingers fidgeting with the buckle of his belt. Attempting to disregard the fatal weapon lodged in between your furrowed eyebrows. 

You softly unlooped his belt, tossing it to the floor, the clack of metal reverberating around the restroom.

"Thats a good girl." He purrs, petting   
your scalp,shifting on his feet. He digs the tip of the gun into your forehead, "Now take my cock out, slut." 

You grin cheekily, unbuttoning and unzipping his pants, slipping your hand through the gap of fabric and pulling his cock from out of his boxers.

He had a massive girth. Your fist failed at fully engulfing his thick, red, throbbing cock. Dwarfing your hand with his formidable size. Drool started to pool at the corner of your lips. He used his gun to swipe the drizzles of spit from your mouth, before returning it back to your forehead. 

"Take me in your mouth, little girl." He commands sternly, hand massaging through your hair leisurely, nails prodding at your scalp. Precum lapped at the tip of his cock, and your pussy fluttered, as the pearly dollop glistened underneath the fluorescent lighting. "Be my good little cockslut."

You comply eagerly, lunging for his length, sealing your lips around the dripping head and suckling. He growled as you swirled your tongue around the tip deliberately, making weary eye contact with him as your eyelashes fluttered. 

You blatantly consumed his salty precum as it puddles on your tongue. You slither your tongue along the underside of his dick, stroking the veins as he grunted under his breath and throbbed in your mouth. His under eye twitched, as you hollowed out your cheeks and began to suck, one hand fisting the base.

He groaned under his breath and continued roughly raking his fingers through your hair, fisting it in a sloppy makeshift ponytail. Your palms dug into the dusty, unsanitary floor beneath you, back arched and ass wiggling in the air as the wet plopping sounds of your mouth working along his cock filled the air; before he grew impatient.

He began rocking his hips and thrusting his dick into your face, you gagged and sputtered as he pounded into the back of your throat with a rich fapping sound, "That's it..." He moaned quietly, his head falling back as he gave into the pleasure of his cock disappearing in your throat. 

Tears prickled at the corners of yours eyes, jaw slack and dropped to accommodate his size, your body slightly rocked with the force of his thrusts in your mouth as you clawed at the floor for support. 

That familiar click of the gun being cocked back caused you to jolt, you hummed and squealed as he invaded your raw throat with his dick, "This gun... holds six bullets," he breathlessly began as he pounded into you, balls slapping, cock twitching, "But there's only three in it." He growled as your tongue twirled around him.

"Let's play a little game with your odds," he deviously mumbled, and before you could protest, his finger pinched the trigger and you choked around his cock as you braced for the impact of a bullet. Only for death to meander past you— with his cock lodged in your throat, as he was on the brink of cumming. 

Your heart was stammering in your chest, the tears brimming your eyelids starting to cascade down. Your throat was sore, lips swollen, as he continues pounding into you with husky pants, nearing his climax. 

He pulled the trigger a second time. 

The bullet whistled, skimming past your ear with a thunderous pop that temporarily deafened you— the copper bullet grazes the tip of your earlobe by a millimeter. Blood trickled down the side of your face, and you sobbed, a screeching, white-noise ringing in your ear.

You were barely even conscious as he reached his peak and released a strained, lewd groan as he pumped his hot seed down your throat, pooling in a warm cluster in your stomach as he slowed his pace and eased himself out of you. 

Lips swollen and cherry red, cheeks tear stained and flushed, gaze murky with tears—you clambered onto the grimy floors in a desperate search for support as you writhed. 

He mustered up a wad of saliva in the back of his throat and spat down at you with a sneer. He tucks himself away, rewiring his belt around his toned abdomen. Tears and clumps of his cum muddled your face. A chunk of your earlobe had been completely blown to smithereens. You bring up a trembling finger to caress the raw gash, whimpering when blood lapped at your fingertip.

Kylo Ren hovered there, smirking, content with his work at completely dismembering your stigma. He surveyed the way you heaved, choked, cried, and bled beneath him.

He watches, as you cradle the sides of the basin, your legs quivering and wobbling like a weak, bleating lamb. He just stands there.

You suppressed the urge to break down into a fit of body-racking sobs. You were emotionally spent. You had just submitted to your enemy, on the opposite end of the battleground.

You brushed past him, collecting a wad of fresh paper towels, crumpling them up and holding them to your bloody wound.

"Pay up. You have something to tell me." You hiccup, voice hoarse.

"Do I?" He hummed tauntingly, stroking his jaw and smirking with disdain. 

"Tell me." You spat through gritted teeth, "A deal is a deal." You balled your hands into blood-restricting fists at your sides and stomped. 

He shrugs. "We never shook on it." 

You blinked at him with a form of loathing so tactile you could taste the detest you harbored for him pooling on your tongue. You should've just stabbed him to death in that overpriced nightclub when you had the chance. You were revolted. 

A tear slithers down your cheek.

He feigns obliviousness, blinking calmy, as he uses a black silk cloth to precisely clean off his gun, wiping away the seamless remnants of your acts. He whistles to himself.

"Don't blame me," he chirped, slipping his gun into the patch inside of his blazer, as he pivoted towards the threshold, "Whores like you love to be used." 

And at that, your blood was boiling with rage and prickling with solemness as the shame of the acts portrayed... started to embed themselves into your mind. He permits you with a taunting grin before he vacated the restroom. Leaving you alone.

Without an explanation, or his end of the deal fulfilled. Leaving you torn with tethered regret and shame, emotionally and physically wounded.


	4. She’s no Angel

"Status report." He grumbles hoarsely into the mic of his transmitter.

A chirpy beep indicates that the message had been conveyed. The chime was followed by a heap of brisk static.

"She's walking. Alone." A voice gruffs back.

His toffee, honey-glinted eyes rake over the bleak scenery of the city's midnight drabness. The breeze cold, climate frigid, as it sweeps through the slightly ajar window of his Lambo. His posture was lethargic, demeanor dull, although he beamed twisted satisfaction with each of his oddly steady breaths.

"Good." Kylo grunts in approval, straightening his posture earnestly, stroking his jaw. "You know what to do. Stay low."

He clicked the transmitter off, shoving it into the cubby located in the side of his leather-interiored door. Taking a swig of whiskey from his titanium flask, that was carved ever so diligently with the finest of architecting hands. 

The wind howled ominously, billowing through the car that reeked of earthy musk, and sweat, and the coppery scent of blood. Scarlet speckled the crevices, and he sighs, clenching his jaw at the unethical little mess he had unintentionally made. He completely disregarded mindfulness when it came down to collecting the green he immorally tasked to sustain. But, he was typically meticulous enough to avoid messes at any and all costs.

He was distracted.

As if... a diversion of some sort had been wormed into his corrupt brain and planted there. A nick to nack at his insanity. A pry to his immoral conflicts and deranged motives.

Distracted was not his forte. It would take some accommodating, accustoming.

He was primal, yes. And not always the best at sweeping up his messes or suppressing his fiery-red anger. But he was methodical. Calculated. He always had a firm, sagacious approach, despite the overall sloppiness of his cutthroat life-long duties.

Now, there's an imbalance. This diversion was weighing down his consequence, anchoring down his compatibility to commit to his usual acts of evil. In abbreviated words, it was making his job ten-thousand times more difficult. Although he would never admit to it, everyone forced to comply to his "business" alongside him could see the greater toll this enigma was taking on him.

"What's the next move for us, boss?" Kuruk mutters from the backseat, gloved fingers tapping and thudding into his muscular thigh.

"Hold off for now." He says, "I doubt Vic will need back up, but it's not a guarantee."

Kuruk huffs in amusement. "So this must be a feisty one?"

Kylo smirks, taking another nimble swig of whisky from his flask. "She's no angel," he purrs, tone earnest and low. "But she will be mine soon."

***

You were pissed.

An anger festered torridly within you. It grows and swells like a tumor that will never pop, pulsating in your chest. The acts, or lack of acts, mustered by Kylo Ren left a hefty mark and emblem of betrayal upon your fragmented ego.

You stagger across the grimy cement in your heels, nearly buckling at the stumbly movement. The bliss, and adrenaline, and intoxication of alcohol, have yet to be disposed from your merely functioning system.

Dry patches of crimson loitered on your jawline, flaking on your now dismembered earlobe. Bruises lingered on your flesh in purple and yellow blemishes from his vice grip. The proof of your carnal treason imprinted upon your skin. The copper of blood and the bawdy-salt of cum still muddled on your tongue.

Not only were you wounded from his appalling, salacious effects— you were scarred mentally, internally bashing your every depraved movement for allowing the nefarious man to seduce you. 

The pale moonlight illuminated the grimy, vacant streets. Reflecting off of silver poles, and any other remotely shiny surface. You stomp along scuffed up sidewalks, embracing your own arms to harbor some warmth. Even though your own personal bear-hug did a less than substantial job at easing the shudders that racked your goosepimpled body.

Your teeth clatter, the nighttime's eerie lack of bustle unnerving you. Everything was closed, apart from the neon-flashing nightclubs that reverberated their robust music around the empty streets. Dim, yellow-gleaming streetlights tainted the roads.

You were lost, scattered in the abyss of plazas and shops. Too drunk to reckon how exactly you had meandered so out of reach from the bar. Too drunk to burden yourself with the trepidation of being completely clueless and disoriented. Unease bubbles in your gut, fizzing, gyrating.

It was like the sixth-sense. You could discern... a shift, in the aroma, in a way. Like you were teetering into the embrace of something purely heinous and inescapable with each heedful stride. Like a stranger was lurking in the shadows, urged to prowl and lurch an attack.

You skid to an apprehensive halt. Surveying your surroundings, trying to fabricate where you've managed to wander to, and whom the instigator of the pit burrowing in your stomach was. Searching for a potential predator. Only to be met with the howl of the cold wind, and the chafe of litter cascading across the cement.

You cautiously regain your footing, your strides less confident and more haphazard. You occasionally wobbled and drifted to the side, steadying yourself by clawing at lampposts, peering at the ground as it wisped by in colorless-spurts of littered concrete.

You waltzed over the rigid cracks winding through the cement, and to your amusement, it was as if you were playing hopscotch. Leaping over the scars upon the sidewalk, reminiscing on the "step on a crack, and you break your mothers back." rhyme.

Even if the children-oriented phenomenon wasn't just a harmless game, it wouldn't have mattered. Your mother was already gone. There was no backbone to snap.

Death enraptured her with its melancholy wing, alongside your father. It was an unoptimally curated fate to succumb to, but an unsurprising one, after all of the anarchy they conveyed.

It has been eleven years since the hit order over your parents heads had been bountied.

An easy infiltration deliberated by unknown hitmen, that contained hijacking their "business trip" to Rome, resulted in the unorthodox assassination of them both.

The heat in the air of that muggy summer day when the body bags turned up at the foot of your door is still tangible. It haunts your skin, ghosts your flesh, with the unwelcomed but tactile memories.

You've spent six years dedicating yourself to hunting down the assassin that had obliterated your parents. It was vengeance. For people that merely acknowledged or indulged you. That never cared for nor nurtured you, only because they were busy committing these acts of treacherous devotion to unlawful gangs.

A crinkle of crumpled litter resounds from the gloomy, dewy alleyway just adjacent to you. Your ears perk at the abrupt crunch, posture straightening, features alert. There was silence.

Then— a pair of burley arms engulfed your waist and belligerently hauled you backwards. You shriek, thrashing, as these arms yank and swindle you as if you're a motionless rag-doll, lurching you heedlessly.

"Let me go!" You croak, a guttural scream shredding through your scorching throat, as the strong arms forcefully pine your arms and navigate you down the alleyway.

You pound your fists into his firm build, writhing, screaming and kicking. He lugged you sharply across the mildewed, wet asphalt, murky droplets of water slapping the filthy black tarmac. Grunting in your ear, squeezing you with a restricting, villainous embrace.

You trembling fingers ghosted the hem of your skirt, slithering it up, brushing the leather of your garner and holster duo. You continued to fight the mans deadly grasp, kicking, breaths labored, body jerking. Your fingers graze the hilt of your trusty dagger, and you pant in relief.

Leather fingertips dug into your flesh, as your screams boiled down to be pained whimpers of exasperation. You slowly started to succumb to his grip, squirming, spewing brisk breaths, shaking in his arms. Tightening your grip on the daggers cold hilt.

Static emits from a transmitter. "Vicrul!" A baritone, modulated voice bellows.

The mans grip loosens, as he fumbles for the device, permitting you with an advantage against his hold. 

"Vic." The blotchy voice echoes, paired with static and ear-piercing squelches.

You seethe, peeling your dagger from your holster with a formidable clang of it's reflective blade, lunging your head and clamping your teeth down on his forearm.

He hisses, recoiling, releasing you with a strained breath of anger. A hint of coppery blood adds a twain to your tastebuds, as you whirl around defensively.

Your body gyrates and buzzes from head to toe with adrenaline, your pulse skyrocketing, as yours eyes lock on those of tonight's enemy. A serpentine green staring back at you with malice. The transmitter plunges from the pocket of his leather jacket and collides with the damp asphalt, the red light flickering defeatedly, as it sulks in a puddle of muddied water.

Your eyes fall to the beeping transmitter, before flashing back over to him.

You growl and lunge an attack.

You slice straight through his abdomen, a hoarse grunt of agony crawling up his throat, as he thuds into the grimy ground. Blood gushes from the long, rigid wound, painting his jacket, pooling around him as he hiccups on his own hitching breath.

"V-Vic-rul?" The transmitter splutters, sparks igniting from the device, "Come in, Vic! Do you have her?" The muffled voice shouts.

Your eyebrows furrow, as you peer down at the device, scrutinizing it from a distance. Without reluctance, you forcefully forge the point of your heel through the device, stomping on it repeatedly. Until it's just an unsalvageable ball of static and eroded metal.

The man, Vicrul, blubbers and wheezes, aimlessly trying to stop the flow of blood that seeps from his abdomen.

Your lips quiver, as you outstretch your dagger and wave it around to wordlessly warn him. "Who do you work for?" You snarl.

He gurgles, sandy-brown eyebrows pinching together in affliction. "Fuck... you t-truly are ins-sane." He sputters, whimpering deeply, growling curses through barred teeth.

You grant him with a forceful kick, plowing your foot up, drilling your shoe straight through his chin. He groans, saliva spewing from his mouth, head wracking to the side.

His throat bobs, chin quivers, breaths wither. The wind was knocked out of him. He was emanating blood, and large quantities of it, by the second. You kneel before his squirming, bloodied body. Observing as he chokes on the air he eagerly rakes in. Head lulling on his burley shoulder.

You cup his chin, fingers gingerly pinching his jaw, as he flinches at your soft touch upon his face. Your eyes flicker between his, that glow dully with the amount of vitality emerging from his body. A devious smile tugs at your lips, as you level in and supply his forehead with a genial little kiss.

Hoping that whomever the fuck sent him, will find him lifeless, with the print of your scarlet lipstick matted to his forehead.

You softly caress the apple of his pale cheek, his breath hitching, pupils dilating. Blood continues to drift around his heaving body.

"Y-you can't just l-leave me like this!" He refutes, babbling, whining. His words slurring together.

The last thing you hear as you saunter crookedly away from the alleyway was the mans unparalleling screams of anguish and defeat.

And you were content with your work.


	5. Box of Secrets

"Another lecture?" You scoff. "Come on. You know this wasn't my fault..."

Poe scowls, pinching the bridge of his nose, exhaling harshly. "Yes, another. Stop intertwining yourself with these outrageous problems, and maybe you wouldn't be lectured so often."

Your nostrils flare, legs flinging up to flagrantly prop up on his desk. "I wasn't expecting to bump into Kylo Ren on my one night off." You snarf through gritted teeth defensively, scorning him with an appointed look.

"You should always be mindful about these sorts of things," he breathes your name with disappointment poignant in his tone. "You know this. People like us don't get days off."

You continue to wallow in your own self-pity and sheepishness, sighing, fiddling with your fingers. The stalwart facade you plastered on was wavering, as you only shift uncomfortably in your seat on the opposing end of Poe's desk. Struggling to articulate a response, or in your case, an excuse.

"You were doing a decent job at keeping your identity under wraps." He says, nodding solemnly, chocolate-doe eyes glossy with earnest. "Before last night. Now, I can assure you, you've earned yourself a hit-order. Murdering one of Kylo Ren's most promising men was not ideal."

An array of emotions flicker desolatingly upon your face, that shrivels into a bewildered grimace. "Kylo Ren?" You rasp.

He slouches back in his chair, cracking his knuckles, releasing a strained sigh. "Yep. That man last night—" He eyes you up and down. "Vicrul Ren. Dedicated associate of our main target."

You pluck at your cuticles apprehensively, harboring your breath in your lungs. An immense coil of unease was gyrating in your gut at the mere thought of your egregious acts. Your mind flips through last nights events like an open, but blurry, book.

You have yet to shed the light on last nights... salacious events, to Poe. If he ever found out you willingly submitted yourself to be at Kylo Ren's merciless, lewd disposal, he would disown you personally and diplomatically.

"Asshole." You growl, snarling as you reminisce, crossing your arms. "I don't understand why... he seemed perfectly content with my presence only an hour before that man lunged an attack on me."

He arches a jaded brow, discreetly rolling his eyes, huffing. "You are his biggest enemy, as of now." He says, stroking his chin. "With your proposition, you put his business at stake. It's just survival of the fittest, babe."

Killing that bastard would be a million times easier now. This time around, all culpability that festered within you at the thought of exterminating Kylo Ren had evaporated. He molded your morals into mush, and now you had to refurbish the standards he had stolen from you. He had his fun. And now, you would have yours.

A boisterous, nearly brass knock on the corridor sent you and Poe both jolting. The steal quaked, the knock reverberating around his dense, modernesque office.

Poe ascends belligerently from his seat, murmuring curses under his breath. He inches over to the door, gripping the doorknob that rattles robustly. Your eyebrows furrow in bewilderment, as you crane your neck to watch from over your shoulder.

He unhinged one of the hefty deadbolts that secured the door, unclasping the abundance of locks. He pries the colossal door open, the hinges squeaking defeatedly, as he props the door open with one clad foot.

"Evening, gentlemen." He greets an orthodox duo of two cliché men, garbed in black trench coats, a pair of designer sunglasses cladding their eyes. "Take a seat. We were just finishing up." He glowers discreetly at you.

You scoff, rolling your eyes at the pair of enigmas shuffling through the office. Your eyes flicker back to Poe. He was maintaining his consequential, professional facade. His promotion, now as Organa's underboss, has converted him into that of an uncordial shark that launders corrupt information and treats his peers as no lesser than two evils. 

Sometimes, you can't even recognize the man you were raised by underneath that masquerade of immorality he wore so perversely.

The men squeeze themselves into the spare chairs that speckle the lavish little office. The office that was bare and drab, containing only a faux plant in the corner, and a plaque of Poe's certificate mounted to the flaking white walls.

Poe brushes briskly past you, giving your shoulder a warning squeeze. You only sharpen your glare and shift in your seat, as he lowers himself back down into his genial office chair.

He firmly retorts your name, gesturing to the pair of eerily mundane, stiff men. "This is Finn." He gestures to one man, his complexion a deep, silky brown. He acknowledges you with a curt nod. 

"And this is his business partner, Jasek." The second man, with a pudgy-pale complexion and shaggy, sandy-hued locks, supplies you with a nod.

You muster a hospitable enough smile, waving timidly. Awkwardly affixing your gaze back to Poe, as he clears his throat to speak.

"From now on... Finn here, is going to be your... bodyguard." He words methodically, calculating himself, eyebrows drawn.

You grimace, clamoring out a whine in protest. "Excuse me? Bodyguard?"

Poe sways in his seat, flashing you a glare of pure contempt, wordlessly broadcasting his annoyance with the trouble you were causing just by being unaccommodating.

"Only for your safety." He bites, attempting to mollify your bubbling irritation. "You won't even know he's there half the time. He'll just stray behind and keep an eye out when your commuting with Ren and his little clan." He flashes Finn an earnest look. "Right?"

He nods, radiating devotion, peeling his sunglasses off of his face. His brown eyes harvested dedication. "Right." He confirms. "Just there for extra support, if need be."

You crack a wry smile, fidgeting with the tips of your hair as you ponder. Outweighing the consequence and rewarding aspects of utilizing a bodyguard. In any other scenario where you were remotely in any kind of danger, you could easily come to terms with this negotiation. It was different with Kylo Ren though... 

Because buried deep down under, you knew yourself, and you knew the way your body responded to his initiations. You refused to be perceived as the melting mess of proclivity you warped into at the merest touch or husked word of him. 

"Fine," you grumble defeatedly, "But I'm perfectly capable of protecting myself."

Poe nods in agreement, sighing. "I know, doll. You've always been a fighter, and a damn good one at that." He grins playfully, his pearly whites glistening as he winks. "General Organa and I just want you to be safe. That's all." He defends, "And we can't assure your safety... without a... witness of sorts to protect you."

A witness?

Something desolating dawns on you then, and your features beam with betrayed enlightenment. "Do you not trust me, Dameron?" You rasp, mouth agape.

He sucks in a sharp breath. "It's not about trust, it's about safety. Your safety."

You scoff aggressively, nose scrunched, "That wasn't a genuine answer to my—"

"Okay," Poe breathes, intervening your brash accusation, before things spiraled out of control. He untucks a stack of crisp paper and straightens them with his palms, smoothing them out. He feathers a hand through his Mocha, silky locks, a couple coils of gray swooping over his remotely-aged forehead.

"I want you to spend the rest of the day relaxing. No parties, no business. Just stay home." He commands with feigned softness, cocking a furry brow at you. "You have a substantial assignment to carry out tomorrow, and I need you to be fully prepared." 

He continues, "Tomorrow night, the Brooklyn Academy of Music is hosting an annual showing of The Temptest," he began, rolling his eyes when you grimaced. "I need the both of you to attend. We're expecting Ren to utilize the gathering for his own scheme."

You forge a faux smile, that nearly pains the muscles tethering your cheeks. "Shakespeare... great..." you mutter. 

"Shakespeare is a classic." Finn states, nodding to himself in conformation. "Sounds easy enough, right?"

You snort. "You could say that."

***

There was a knock on your front door, soft and mellow. You and Poe peered over the couch in bewilderment. You groaned and trashed your legs to kick your fluffy blanket off of you, flinging up from the comfortable position you had been laying in, snuggled up to him, and jogging towards the door.

You were in the midst of having a harmless, non-business related conversation, as a proposition to rekindle your friendship. To strengthen the taut rope that weaved you two together. He apologized for being distant and resentful, blaming his bitterness on the hardships of work, and you apologized for your misbehavior and lack of compliance.

The bangs became fervent, you scurried towards the door and nearly stumbled over the crinkled fold in your rug, "I'm coming!" You shouted, clutching the knob lightly as you stood on your tiptoes and peeked out the peep hole with a squinted eye. 

There was nobody. Just the dimly lit outdoor foyer of your apartment, leaves bristling across the concrete with the gentle breeze. 

You twisted the lock, peeling the door open with a dull creak and glancing in both directions, only being greeted with an eerie vacancy. It was nearing midnight, people were ideally tucked beneath their sheets and sleeping their apprehensions away. 

Your gaze trailed down to the mucky, torn welcome mat shielding your door; a perfectly symmetrical box was placed in the center. You hesitantly crouched down, forearms dangling over your thighs, "Poe?" You called from over your shoulder, he hummed, his footsteps teetered towards you as you examined the box with knitted eyebrows.

The box was crisp, lacking any dints and flaws in the cardboard, entailing a thick, aligned ribbon of clear packing tape sealing the contents inside. Poe appeared by your side, knees cracking as he crouched to be leveled with you, equally bewildered. He titled his head and studied the box, avoiding touching it.

"What do you think it is?" You hushed your tone, facing him with concern lacing your uncertain voice.

Merely inches away from you, he gulped and met your gaze, "I'm not sure..." He scratched his tousled beard, lips forming into a lopsided grimace. 

You hesitantly reached for it and he softly nudged your hand away, averting his focus back to the box as you observed his complexion, distressed and confused facial expressions, carefully trailing his finger along the corner of the box. 

"Let's not open it." You insisted, shaking your head softly with furrowed eyebrows as he inches closer to it. There was something exceptionally threatening about a box with zero information upon the sender, address, and even name appearing at the foot of your door in the middle of the night.

He braced himself with the white trimmed door frame as he stood back up, regaining his footing and taking a couple of cautious steps, rounding the opposite side of the box. 

His face contorted into a depiction of fear. His eyes bulged out of his head, pupils dilated and jet black, under-eye twitching. His jaw dropped stiffly, mouth agape. 

"What's wrong?" You frantically blubber and sprung up to your feet, he shook his head vigorously and cleared his throat, snatching the box off of the mat and clutching it to his chest, restricting you from the sight of it with his thickly bundled arms. 

"I'm going to, uh, take this to Organa." He removed one arm from the box to rub the back of his neck nervously, "We need to study this at the lab." 

You gasped with disturbance, "The lab?" 

The laboratory was a significantly decent, personal place that the resistance equipped to run tests on fingerprints, hair particles, other DNA samples. It was rarely ever visited, the supplies potentially accumulated thick coats of dust from the lack of use.

"Why?" You asked, reaching for the box and he jerked his body sharply, pivoting away from you with a prominent snarl.

"Don't worry, just let me take care of it." He offered you an unconvincing, wavering smile. 

You remained silent, wordlessly glaring at him with puzzlement, crossing your arms defiantly and shifting all of your weight to one foot, jutting a hip. 

He sighed, "We need to know who sent this box. Even though I can take a wild guess," he remarked knowingly, shrugging with one shoulder as realization struck you, "Just stay inside for the night, keep the doors locked. Call me or Finn if anything... alarming happens."

You hesitated before nodding defeatedly, stepping inside of your apartment and collecting his thick, chestnut wool coat from the coatrack perched by the threshold, smoothing out the wrinkles and offering it to him. He appreciatively seized it from out of your hands, tossing it over his shoulder, leaning forward and pressing a swift, platonic kiss to your cheek as you giggled. 

He waved you goodbye, maintaining his crushing grip on the box even as he maneuvered past the array of colorless, duplicating doors. Your gaze lingered on him until he disappeared down the stairs, his quick steps echoing down the hall. You sealed the door shut, instantly bolting the door closed with the provided lock and the extras you added just for good measure.

Dramatically plopping back down in your original position on the couch, the warmth lingered in the sunken in section of the cushions of Poe's body, you propped your feet up on the armrest and draped your forearm over your heavy eyes.

The lack of honesty you were provided had begun growing bothersome, now that your life is potentially threatened and jeopardized, you deserved the knowledge of the details of all of this. No matter how gruesome or monotonous those details were. 

One thing was for certain; Kylo Ren was the mastermind behind all of the dreadful formalities you would have to oblige in order to be assured of your safety, and apart of you was ecstatic to see his handsome, infuriating face tomorrow night. 

Just so you could give that self-conceited narcissist a piece of your ambitious, exasperated mind, and get that revenge you plotted to spring upon him before the madness one of his men inflicted upon you last night occurred. 

Before you could acknowledge the bombarding unease all of this brought you, your eyelids were weighted with extortion and you passed out on the couch, curled up in a ball and entangled in your soft blankets. You've been deprived of sleep for days, hopefully a full-nights rest would replenish your energy.


	6. The Right-hand Man

The leather backseats of the Cadillac were latching onto the damp, sweat soaked skin of your thighs, silence weaving through the black iced scent air. The masculine, musky scent was suffocating, although you refused to roll down the window for fresh air. You didn't want to disturb the rigid, elderly drivers tranquility as he focused intensely on the streets. 

You exchanged a weary look with Finn; his cream, chiffon tuxedo was loose-fitting and neatly pressed, he adjusted his matching bowtie and offered you a faltering, reassuring smile. You grinned back, his hand snaked across the middle seat separating you and patted your hand platonically. 

The evening sun was casting an amber glow along the congested clusters of people shuffling about the narrow sidewalks, all of them clutching designer bags and adorning luxurious, fashionable clothing. The longer the driver maneuvered you through downtown, the richer the civilians appeared. 

The showing of The Temptress would preview in an hour, you chewed your nude tinted bottom lip nervously, wringing out your wrists, the charms of your bracelets jangling softly. The traffic was crammed, horns honking aggressively and breaks constantly screeching. The sheer thought of being late to this event caused you to grow uneasy. Another lecture from Poe would not be ideal considering the improvements you've made with him.

"Miss?" The drivers monotone voice clambered around your distressed thoughts, the cloud of apprehension evaporating as you hummed in acknowledgment.

Averting your gaze from the window and meeting his in the rear-view mirror, his gelled white locks caught your attention before he cleared his throat, "We will arrive to our destination in approximately twenty minutes." He conveyed a thick and fluent French accent, elegance lacing his properly etched tone. 

You nodded, "Thank you." 

Once his piercing blue gaze flickered back to the road, you rolled your eyes and propped your elbow up on the windowsill, pouting. Twenty minutes to dwell on the inferiority of this evening, twenty minutes to reminisce on the occurrences of your last meeting with Kylo Ren, and twenty minutes to disperse yourself in regret, humiliation and shame. 

There wasn't a single ounce of doubt pulsing through the boiling veins in your body that he would mention your ignorant, foolish acts. He would rub his intoxicating prudence in your face with that sexy, sinister smirk, reprimand you of his lethal actions and merciless thrusts into your throat. 

The thought itself bubbled nausea in your stomach, you stifled the urge to grimace, lips pursed in a queasy line as you lightly clutched the curve of your uterus and shifted uncomfortably. 

The nervous sweat accumulating on your bare thighs continued lapping up in a puddle beneath you as the vibrant arrays of colors painting the sky washed away, transforming into a dark, navy mass of midnight-blues and jet-blacks. The stickiness formulated thickly beneath the leather surface of your holster, which only contained a significant amount of your Marlboros. 

The theater was highly secured, you made the assumption the building was guarded by Police Officers, and Poe informed you and Finn that in order to even enter the main entrance you were required to oblige the requests of the officers and pass through multiple metal detectors. 

Which left you defenseless if a brawl with Kylo Ren broke out, and with the pint-up hatred you spewed towards him, you were positive that the rationality would flea your body at the sight of his flamboyance and the taut string weaving your sanity together would snap. 

You were no match for that massive, ravenous man if it came to a weaponless battle. Luckily enough for you, Finn was a decently built man and he had endless years of fist-fight experiance from his training, before he was hired to protect you.

The tires screeched as the car came to an abrupt, sharp halt. You lunged forward with an intelligible squeak, bracing the window for support as the other two passengers released tiny gasps. 

"Has anybody ever taught you how to..." Your snarky remark was left pending in the thick air as your eyes trailed along that familiar, tall man, offering an idle apologetic wave to the driver as he jogged across the street, approaching the entrance to the theater. 

"There he is!" You exclaimed, cowering behind the drivers seat as you waved a pointed finger towards him. 

Finn hummed, eyebrows knitting together as he followed the direction of your pointer finger, "Kylo Ren?" He scanned him through squinted eyes, peering out of the tinted, bullet proof windows. 

"Mhm." You nodded frantically, lips pursed in concentration as your eyes traced the crevices of his admittedly godlike body. His tuxedo was a crisp black, the blazer accentuating his back muscles as they flexed. The outline of his ass was prominent and appealing, his long legs straining the material of his pants as he marched up the stairs, his veiny hand gliding up the silver, reflecting railing. 

Even as the driver throttled the gas and cruised through the bushels of critics and wealthy people scurrying across the road, you craned your neck to observe Kylo Ren's fierce strides through the window. He pivoted in the opposite direction, waiting, hands in his pockets as his face remained stoic. 

A fairly tall brunette woman with a satiny white pencil dress stumbled up the stairs, and you unintentionally grimaced when he held out a hand to steady her. A permanent scowl splayed across your features as he guided her towards the entrance with his hand placed on the curve of her lower back. 

You sighed, slouching down and pointing towards the vacant parking space, "Park there." 

The driver cocked a brow, meeting your earnest gaze through the rear view mirror as you raised your eyebrows expectantly.

"There's a parking spot reserved for-"

"Please," you breathed. "Park there." You demanded softly, voice laced with desperation. 

The mixture of envy and perturbation coursing through your spiraling notion was despicable. Jealousy was a disease, and an extremely irrational, fatal one at that. How could a man with the capabilities of lighting a devilish flame of hatred inside of you be the suspect of your begrudgement? 

The driver never responded to your commands, instead he sighed dramatically and complied to your directions.

The vehicle rumbled and vibrated with a low hum as Finn slipped out on his side, rounding the caboose and peeling your door open for you. Steadying yourself with the armrest, you hopped out of the seat and stumbled in your black stilettos, smoothing out the wrinkles in your immodest, silk bodycon dress, the ravishing burgundy meshing sufficiently with your skin tone.

"Thanks," you mumbled with a considerate smile as he nodded, slamming the door shut once you had slipped out. 

With the sway of your hips, you strutted through the aisles of cars and limos, Finn kept an extended distance away as he trailed behind. 

Muffled chatter elicited from each dimensional corner of the outdoor venue as friends and foe made amends for the sake of the serene evening, conversing with one another as the guards unhinged the grand entrance.

Cheers and claps echoed around the tarnished brick walls of the theater, you clapped idly to blend in as your eyes danced along the crowd with narrowed eyes.

As distinguishable as Kylo Ren proved to be, his towering frame and apathetic features were undetectable through the crowd. Absentmindedly, you slowly inched forward, nearing the entrance as everybody ecstatically spilled inside with joyful squeals. 

Thoroughly scanning the crowd as you entered the art deco, multi-million dollar valued building, you titled your chin high to peer over heads and updos, and the longer you effortlessly searched, you realized that the woman he had united with only moments before was now standing alone. Bouncing on her heels with excitement, clutching her pearl necklace, she greeted an unfamiliar man with a hand shake.

Staring at the man and observing his mechanisms, you learned that he wasn't totally unfamiliar. He represented Kylo Ren in many ways more than just his muscular, colossal build. His facials expressions were nearly identical, except he looked less enticing when he mimicked them. Emotionless, tense, stern.

The mans gaze drifted to you, and the panic settled in as you stilled, eyes wide. His eyes flagrantly drank in your appearance, starting at the tips of your stilettos, leisurely trailing up your body until they lingered on your cleavage. Bashfully tucking a curled strand of hair behind your ear, a discernible blush nipped at your cheeks and stained them crimson.

The heavy layers of foundation would do a decent job at shielding the color from seeping through, clogging your pores with the effort. 

A suit suspiciously similar to Kylo Ren's swathed his impressive build, he shifted on his feet and disregarded the brunettes presence as she flashed him a baffled look, his attention settling on you. The champagne glass he held fizzed with carbonation as he slipped it into his opposite hand, beckoning you with two fingers. 

Your eyebrows furrowed, lips parting as you pointed to yourself, a vibrant neon question mark floating above your head. 

With an amused smirk, he nodded, beckoning you a second time as he took a sip of his drink from the corner of his lips, trapping you with the soft, emerald green crystals of his irises. 

You hesitated. This was presumably a deceitful scheme plotted by Kylo Ren himself; explaining why he had vanished in thin air, abandoning that woman— whom you assumed to be a clueless ploy in this stratagem— just to lure you into his nearly convincing trap. 

Debating between dashing through the clusters of people and tucking yourself away in the women's restroom for the remainder of the night or confronting the bait of his futile method to delude you, the latter was the only liable option.

Sauntering your way over to him, the brunette eyed you with a bitter glare. You smiled sweetly, the sugar lacing your pearly grin caused her to recede and avert her envious gaze towards the high, veraciously architected ceilings. 

"Well, aren't you just a pretty little thing?" He chirped slowly, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as his eyes raked over your emphasized curves, reaching out his hand diligently. 

"Thank you," you replied softly, tenderly shaking his hand as he squeezed and held on for longer than chastely acceptable, "You're handsome yourself."

He chuckled profoundly and his head fell back with his cackle, you swallowed the lump of skepticism bobbing in your throat and released his hand. There was one thing that was noticeably different about him and Kylo Ren. His benevolent laugh was almost convincing enough for you to believe his subtle gesture was out of generosity. 

"So. You enjoy theater?" You asked curiously, straightening your posture and querying him with a titled head. 

He shrugged, his vacant hand slithered into his pants pockets as he puckered his lips with disinterest, "Not usually my thing. How about you?" He cocked a brow, leaning against an intricately carved pillar. 

"Me neither." You candidly responded, "I just thought it would be interesting to try something different." 

He nodded seemingly convinced, before he gulped down another sip of champagne and pointed towards the nearest threshold, "I heard this building dates back to the early nineteen hundreds," he described pointedly, "I was think about taking a stroll around the building, I don't know, just to take a look." His stature relaxed, grip loosening on his glass. 

"This place is beautiful," you feigned attentiveness to his brief rambling of the buildings craftsmanship, nodding to yourself as you observed the predominance of the architecture yourself. 

"Want to come with me?" He asked. "The curtain doesn't open until..." He peered down at the bronze face of his watch, "Nine."

You nodded, rubbing the back of your neck nervously and peering over your shoulder, charily searching for Finn. Hopefully he had been observing this conversation and is just as perplexed and dubious as you. With the assumption he would follow you, you gingerly interlocked arms with the man as he offered you a dashing smile. 

"My name is Cardo," he said, raising his eyebrows at you, prying you for your own name.

You mumbled your name softly and he huffed, nodding with satisfaction to your response. Security was guarding the entrance to the theater itself, rummaging through purses and pockets and forcing people to meander through the metal detectors. This place always had maximum security, the majority of the predated buildings and structures in New York did. Because of people like you and Kylo Ren; taking advantage of palatial events and utilizing them for treachery. 

He guided you down a picturesque foyer, quaint paintings and murals lining the extravagant walls as the prehistoric art representing literature and drama fascinated you, fingers trailing along the gold faultless trim framing the portraits as the amount of people swarming you decreased tremendously.

Glancing behind you again, a wave of relief washed over you and drowned you in solace when Finn blended in with a pair of girls, face contorted into a puzzled expression. 

Cardo followed your gaze and you heaved with solicitude, pressing a palm into his chest softly and batting your eyelashes at him with an innocent smile, "I think I saw a sign that said the gift shop was this way," your voice was slightly high-pitched with the panic lacing your tone. 

His gaze darted between your doe eyes and your hand resting on his chest, "Sorry." You mumbled sheepishly, dropping your hand to your side as he just smirked prudently and nodded. 

After a few pivots and rounded corners, you and Cardo were alone. The resounding hum of the furnace thickened the air as you gulped and glanced up at him, his intentions were still obscured and indefinite, hazy with his fog of hospitality.

Finn was nowhere in sight. If he was nearby, he was maintaining a distance, a void spilling in the space between yourself and your only source of protection— a seeping gap leaving space for the inauspicious to happen. 

"Cardo?" A baritone, malicious voice sneered. 

Kylo Ren. With balled fists swinging at his sides, he stomped in your direction with palpable malevolence, snarling. He disregarded your existence completely, as if you were just an invisible apparition latched onto the tall man victim of his wrath. 

"Where the hell were you?" He snapped, lunging forward and waving an aggressive finger in his face. Cardo swallowed, his lock on your arm unintentionally tightening as Kylo Rens gaze drifted to you. 

He stilled, jaw clenched and teeth barred together, gritting with vexation as his eyes darted between you and then back to Cardo, his hand tediously dropping to his hip. 

"Lovely to see you here," you genially mumbled, humbling your familiarity with him as you narrowed your eyes provocatively. 

His face, although enthralling and charming, was refined with fuming rage and this ability to pester the content you had been feeling only moments before he made an abrupt appearance. 

"Go." He spat, pinning Cardo down with his insolent stare. After he loitered by your side without making an effort to obey his demands, he scolded him with a ridiculed glare. "The others are in the back." He cocked his head to the side. Cardo nodded, peeling away from you with an apologetic look and brushing past Kylo, sizing him up. 

His tongue poked his inner cheek, gaze casted to the side, lingering on the spot that Cardo had stood. "Why are you here?" He mumbled, exasperated. It was rationally inconvenient that you made an appearance at all of the events he attended, you stifled a prudent grin. 

"To watch The Temptress." You crossed your arms defensively, rolling your shoulders with discomfort. 

How could the manipulative man that abused his authority of charm be this enticing? This cunning? By just simply hovering a few feet away from you with a stoic expression and eyes glossy with extortion. 

These thoughts were spiraling out of control, and luckily enough for you, his flamboyance was tactile and discarding a bitter taste on your tongue, concealing the fascination for his appearance with his egotistical behavior.

"I refuse to believe that you're this oblivious, tesoro." He glowered, clambering down on his tongue with a strained, albeit civilized nod, tone hoarse and agitated. His eyes darted up your frame, mimicking Cardo's action earlier, lacking the adoration. Instead, animalistic.

His tongue darted out to wet his top lip, clouds of lust vaporizing his black, predatory gaze. He took a step forward. You harbored your breath in your lungs with anticipation. He pursed his lips, his fingertip grazing the torrid scab that lingered on the lobe of your ear.

The corner of his lips turned upwards into a minuscule smirk, a nauseating confirmation that the events that previously took place a couple of nights ago at that bar were real. Not just a figment of the drugs or a discernible nightmare. 

His fingers tethered through a loose strand of your hair, humming to himself, his hand the soft whisper of a ghost as it brushed past your breast. One hand was woven into his pocket, the other vigorously stroking his taut jaw. 

A beat of silence. Disregarding the humming of the furnace and the muffled chatter spilling through the ajar threshold only a few sharp corners back. 

A pout permanently settled upon your lips, avoiding his gaze, the tension was suffocating. The frustration you burrowed for him had simmered down trivially. As if he coaxed you with a ritualistic spell, or forged you as the victim to his puppeteering. 

How could he stand there and innocently bat his eyelashes? After facing the woman he tormented with the whips of his lies?

You opened your mouth to break the silence and he huffed, "Business." 

Here for business or pleasure? Your words floated around your mind like a failed objective, scattering, the train of your thoughts whistling defeatedly and spinning off of its tracks. 

"If you want to know the details of my business," he took another step forward, you rooted yourself to the floor despite the will to run. "We're going to have to deal with ours first."

You blinked in astonishment, wondering if you had heard him correctly. His earnest face remained expressionless as you absentmindedly traced the diamond pendants of your heirloom necklace, grazing your collarbone. 

"Our business?" You asked. "Are you referring to the night you almost killed me?" 

He shrugged charily, "Almost." He pointed out with raised eyebrows, before the vacuum of apathy sucked in his emotions. "You seem fine to me." He retorted mundanely with another shrug, lips puckering as he unironically observed your condition. 

"You seem like more than fine to me..." He drawled, taking another step, towering over you. With a bowed head you stared at the eye-level buttons threatening to snap at the seam. This could not be happening. You could reconcile the huskiness of his voice. 

"All dolled-up. Wearing this dress." He hissed, and your entire body went rigid with repulse when his hands clutched your hips, static nipping at your skin as his palms smoothed out the silk of your dress, electrifying your veins with revolt and desire all at once. 

"Oh." Your lips pathetically parted, eyes darting around the expanse of his toned chest, the steady rise and fall of his breaths. 

His fingers pinched your jaw, digging into the bone harshly while merely maintaining the tenderness, forcing you to peer up at him. His pupils were dilated with an unquenchable thirst, boring into yours. 

"You lied to me last time," you began, voice shaky with exhilaration as he hummed in acknowledgment, his hand trailing up your waist and tracing the curve of your breast through your dress as you sucked in a breath, "How do I know you won't do it again?"

He scoffed. "You don't." He mumbled bluntly, his thumb crawling up your chin and pinching your bottom lip, slipping past the gap separating your lips and firmly pressing into your tongue as your lips sealed around his knuckle, "But we both know that doesn't matter." 

Did the pliance of his candor and the misjudgment of his lies truly matter when his touch was this alluring? Foresaken and warm?

Your labored pants filled the silence in the foyer as he paused, basking in the wordless submission you had confirmed with the flick of your tongue, swirling it around the tip of his thumb, hollowing out your cheeks and humming softly. 

"There she is," he muttered, voice thick and sensual, dropping a few octaves as he slipped his pointer and middle finger in with his thumb, thrusting them into your mouth. "That eager little slut." 

Tempting shivers crawled up the curve of your spine, your tongue was juicy with lapped up saliva while it danced along his fingers. The darkness consuming his gaze was bantering you with its intimidation. He slipped his fingers out of your mouth with a wet plop, his knuckles tainted with lipstick smudges. 

"Hands on the wall." He demanded. 

With a trembling, swift nod, you obliged his orders and pressed your palms into the etched sage wallpaper, watching him from over your shoulder as you waited. 

"Hike the hem of your dress up," he commanded, his voice was rich with infatuation as his fingertips traced the curve of your butt, "Let me see." 

Your eyes darted towards both ends of the foyer, effortlessly searching for any form of livelihood. A thunderous crack echoed through the hallway, pins and needles tingling in your ass as you lurched forward. The twinging of his spank pulsating the heat between your thighs. 

"Do as your told, whore." He warned, you nodded, cheek pressed into the wall as you thumbed the hem of your dress and tediously rolled it up, crinkling the fabric as you revealed the soft flesh of your thighs and neared the curve of your ass. 

He growled at the sight of your black, lacy panties, already damp with the wetness pooling at your entrance. His curled finger looped the thin fabric, dragging it back and flinging it back at you. You yelped, flesh stinging and buzzing.

"Look at you." He mumbled with disbelief, shaking his head with disappointment and clicking his tongue. "You're fucking filthy." 

His palm striked your sensitive, scorching flesh mercilessly with a prudent chuckle as you squirmed and pressed your thighs together, pushing your pelvis into the wall for a source of friction. The burning sensation was the match to the flame of your arrousel, his words the gasoline that fueled the wildfire. 

His fingernails dig crimson, crescent moons into the flesh of your thighs as he pried them apart forcefully. His fingertip grazed the puddle in your panties as he traced a line along your slick folds. Arching your back in response, he hummed in disapproval, striking you a third time. 

"Naughty bitch." He snarled, tracing your jawline with his damp fingers from behind, spreading your wetness along your skin. "So wet already." He emphasized his words as he laid another harsh slap, you chewed your lip to conceal a moan, jolting and clawing at the wallpaper. 

There was a moment of the crisp sound of fabric rustling, your core was ablaze with the craving for pleasure. Even with the shame prickling at your skin, the lust overthrew all of your senses, numbing the humiliation. 

Something icy grazed your inner thigh. Keen, sharp, the movement precise and cautious enough to barely brush the skin as you tensed. The sensation returned, the flat, glacial steel dragging across your slit, a shrewd moan passed through your lips. 

"You like that, hm?" His free hand was feathering through your hair, raking through your scalp. He cupped the crown of your head, locks of your loose curls weaving through his fingers as he yanked your head backward with a deafening crack. 

"Hm?" He raised his tone, exhaling sharply in your ear through his nose as he repeated his action, this time applying firm pressure. You seethed when the sharp edges sliced through you inner thigh, writhing and shimmying away when realization struck you like a bolt of lightening. 

He was using a knife. 

"Oh, fuck." You croaked as his forearm slammed into your back and pinned you into the wall, his fingers lapping up the blood trickling from your fresh wounds as you whimpered, knees threatening to buckle from the pain. 

He massaged your covered clit with the sticky puddle of blood painting his fingertips, rubbing neat circles that sent tremors throughout your body, the heat radiating from your core hotter than the stinging of your cuts. 

"Yes." You moaned softly, lips parted as you refrained from grinding your hips into his fingers, appeasing from watering the seed of his sprouting gratification. 

He snickered, his breath wafting into the ticklish flesh of your neck, when his plump lips latched onto the skin and suckled on the same spot relentlessly, digging his canines into you while you gasped. 

His crimson fingers still teased and flicked your clit, distracting you from the blade of his knife inching nearer to the exposed skin of your throat. That is until the keen edge was pressed into your neck, his fingers and lips abandoning you all at once as you froze. 

This was the second time in the past fourty-eight hours you've been at the mercy of Kylo Ren, vulnerable and arroused, meeting the taunting, challenging stare of his weapon. If death wasn't a millimeters length away you would've laughed. 

"No, no. Please. Not again." You blubbered, the blade applying enough pressure to elicit blood but not enough to pierce your skin. "Why do you do this? Get off of me." 

If his weight wouldn't have been pinning you to the wall, you would've lost all stability and collapsed. "You're awful demanding for being this close to death." His breath was fatal, injecting you with lethal humiliation as his demeanor shifted and you internally scolded yourself. You've been hoaxed by the million dollar man himself. Again. 

His fingers, scarlet with the blood that lingered from the wounds that were still leaking down your thighs, smeared the remnants of the proof of his acts on your bottom lip, pressing his palm onto the wall when he was satisfied.

The heavy flavor of iron lapped up on your tongue, astounding your tastebuds. His pants were furious in your ears as adrenaline sparked a winding course of panic through your veins. 

"I need you to stop this. Stop fucking involving yourself in my business," his voice was dripping with malice and vexation, the molasses of rage thickening his voice as his grip on the knife faltered, "Because I fucking swear to you, once you get in, you can't get out. Because I won't let you get out." He corrected.

Without another word, he relieved your body of his weight, you folded and crumbled to the floor. Droplets of blood stained your legs, billowing into your skin, leaking all of the ground as you traced the wounds with a gasp. 

He shifted from foot to foot in his polished leather loafers. You were too occupied with the scorching cuts peppering your inner thighs to study his features. To observe if the guilt had caught up with him. 

He crouched down to be level with you, you sheepishly avoided his gaze. He fumbled with his pocket, untucking a silky black cloth. He carelessly tossed it in your direction, you greedily scooped it up off of the floor and swathed the blemishes of yours cuts with a grimace. 

"You need to get out of here," he mumbled nearly incoherently, sighing softly and standing back up. You peered up at him through your eyelashes, jaw slack with hatred for him and his sudden sincerity. "Just go. Clean those before they get infected."

He was gone just as swiftly and suddenly he appeared, vanishing in thin air, just a figment of your memory. The torturous memories of both events branding his name in your brain, indenting it. 

Finn rounded the corner with a limp sprint, his full-lips were bloodied and dismantled, blotchy purples peppering his face, a single eye was swollen and puffy with defeat as he clutched his hip. 

"Perfect fucking timing!" You spat breathlessly, accusingly, he failed to respond to your rightful bitterness, instead he grasped onto your biceps and eased you up off of the floor and wrapped an arm around your back.

"What happened to you?" You asked, supporting him to the best of your ability, even through walking was not one of your methodical advantages at the moment. 

"It doesn't matter. Let's just get out of here."

And you did. You complied to Kylo Ren's violent, albeit doable requests. But his ruthless demands and liable threats that were meant to frighten you and obviate the sheer thought of crossing his path again only proved to you that the resistance was right; Kylo Ren was full of mysteries, and you were determined to solve them, regardless of the scrapes and bruises this duty would entail.


	7. Hush Money

General Organa was arranging a meeting today to discuss tactics and motives for the next event you were required to attend. The anticipation and turmoil were mingling together. Fingers fidgeting, body jittery, you found yourself in the same position you had been merely two days ago. 

Surrounded by three men, Finn, Poe and Jasek, all of them eerily quiet and avoiding glancing in each other's directions. The tension was thicker than molasses. Poe was his usual alternative self, stoic and earnest. The other two men were palpably anxious. Finn especially. 

You've always heard all of the speculated rumors about Organa. Many claimed that she was menacing, revolting and malicious, the spawn of satan himself. 

But now, with the small, frail woman lingering at the threshold of Poe's office, her gentle heartfelt smile made the rumors volatile, a dissolving vapor of possibility. 

"Good morning," she bluntly spoke with a warm grin, her honey-hazel eyes were glistening with hospitality as she made meaningful eye contact with everybody and waltzed into the room. 

Her hair was a soft, sandy brown, tainted with a silver hue, pinned up in an intricate braid that loosely framed the crown of her head. Her wrinkles and smile lines were faint, albeit deep, with kindliness seeping through the cracks of her fair skin. 

"Good morning." You all retorted back, enthusiasts at your best. 

As she lowered herself into the chair directly next to Poe's, she neatly folded her hands in her lap, her amiable gaze settled on you. She eyed you up and down, observing you. You gulped, unable to reconcile whether she was speculating you out of judgment or inquisitiveness. 

She drawled your name slowly, you straightened your posture and mustered a faltering grin back as she hummed, "It's lovely to meet you. Poe has told me so much about you," she chuckled, reaching a single hand across the desk and patting yours. "All good things, don't worry." She winked, her irises sparkling as she slipped her hand back into her lap. 

"It's such an honor to meet you." Wildly gesturing towards her, a cheesy grin plastered on your face, your cheeks buzzed with sheepishness as everybody in the room watched as you gushed over her. "This is an incredible opportunity, general." 

She waved an idle hand of dismissal with a tiny, admirable laugh, "Please. Call me Leia." She demanded softly, you nodded in astonishment. She nudged Poe playfully with her elbow, "And indeed, it is. I just wish we could be meeting under better circumstances."

Jasek mumbled in agreement, acknowledging her words with an accepting nod. Poe shifted in his chair and scratched the lobe of his ear out of... nervousness? It was infeasible to depict his true emotions, his consequential facade was on and credible, as if he was intimidated by Leia, fearful that the reality of his goofiness would slip through the cracks. 

Like he was afraid of her. 

"Lighten up, everybody." She sighed pointedly, directing her attention to Poe and rubbing his back with a motherly, attentive stare, consoling his palpable unease. He only tensed under her touch, clenching his jaw when she averted her gaze back to the three of you, silent and expectant. 

"Hopefully today's discussion can help us improve." She said, removing her hand from Poe, he released a deep breath of relief. "I am not blaming any of you for the lack of intel you've provided." Her tone was benevolent and soft; her words themselves were bittersweet. 

Your eyebrows knitted together with bafflement, chewing your lip to suppress the urge to just spill all of the bloody, humiliating details of your experiences with Kylo Ren, just to make her comprehend the difficulties of your expected duties. 

"Oh," she gasped, surprised by your reaction to her words, "I didn't mean it offensively. I sincerely thank you for all of the work you've done. I know that B..." She blinked rapidly, using her knuckle to scratch the tip of her scrunched nose, "I know that befriending Kylo Ren is not the simplest of tasks." 

Poe flinched at her scrambled words, side eyeing her with concern, pursing his lips. He was uncomfortable, tangibly, he clasped his pointer fingers over his lips to refrain from speaking. 

"It's been... a challenge." You admitted with a breathy chuckle, apprehensively tucking a strand piece of hair behind your ear, "But I will do whatever it takes. I don't attend to disappoint." 

She nodded appreciatively, clasping her hands together and squirming in her seat, "I believe you." She chirped, smiling reassuringly, "If Poe trusts you, so do I." She glanced at him and he nodded rigidly, seeking refuge in the intensity of your concerned stare before he sniffled and bowed his head lowly in shame.

The atmosphere in the office was unsettling, his negligence of stability was perturbing your mind as you fiddled with the cuffs of your button up shirt. Well, It was Poe's, he let you borrow it because you got blood all over your own shirt this morning. That was when he was in a brighter, atleast sufficient mood. 

"Finn." She gazed at him with admiration, he shifted, smoothing out his pants and cupping his knees with a timid smile and nod. "How did your first day together go? At the theater?" 

The edge to her feather-light tone was indicating, her eyes narrowing accusingly, while maintaining that innocently sweet facade. Her dimples deepened as she chuckled at his skittish gulp, you exchanged looks with him knowingly and he adjusted his tie with clammy hands. 

"It was alright." He responded bluntly, swallowing hoarsely and searching for solace in your eyes as you agreed with a fervent nod. "The play was great. Other than that, it wasn't very eventful." You added, she offered you a convinced nod. Finn exhaled as you portrayed the rule of the aiding cure to his discomfort. 

"From now on, I need you to..." She trailed off and sighed, tapping her finger pads together as she leaned forward, hovering over the desk, "Use aggression. We are fighting fire with fire here. I need you to be the ice." 

You made prolonged eye contact with her, her directions and commands were a jumbled cluster of futile orders flittering throughout your mind. With a few rapid blinks, you chuckled mundanely and scratched the back of your head nervously. She remained impassive, your laugh died and slithered back down your throat as you pursed your lips shut. 

"I understand." You mumbled with a shallow nod, feeling intimidated under her honey gaze. It was thick with serenity, alluring in a way, like a sweetener, a motherly gaze that should've been consoling. Instead, it had this peculiar ability to make you feel pathetic and small. 

"Good!" She cheered with a single, proud clap. "Because I already have something planned. For tonight." 

———

With grumbled curses to himself, you moaned croakily with agony as Poe sinched your waist aggressively with your corset, lacing the material together with trembly, imprecise fingers. He mumbled an insincere, concentrated apology as you seethed. 

"Poe?"

He hummed in acknowledgement, poking his tongue out, engrossed on smoothing out your dress. The reflection that greeted you in the full-body mirror leaning slothfully against the wall was nearly repulsive, offensive. Because the dress that accentuated the prominent curves of your body with its ornate patterns was ravishing. 

The entire dress, from the corset to the luscious mauve clutching your curves, was peppered with white diamonds that embedded themselves into the costly cashmere. The price tag of the dress had been removed for the sake of your apprehension. Leia offered to buy the necessities for tonight's schemes, as an appreciative gesture for your lack of inquiry and faithful compliance to her abrupt orders.

"Is everything okay?" You quarried him with your head titled, eyebrows knitting together with solicitude. "You've been on edge ever since the meeting this morning."

He idly met your gaze in the mirror before they flickered back to your dress. He tightened the taut lace and you grimaced, tensing, wobbling in your matte nude pumps. "It's just one of those days." He mumbled, rounding your side, studying his work in the mirror. 

"I get it." You nodded cautiously with consideration, swiveling to face him and gently clasping his shoulder, using you thumb to platonically rub his clavicle. "But if there's something else bothering you, you would tell me. Right?" You coaxed with a faltering, reassuring smile.

He hesitated, before he nodded curtly, lips pressed into a thin line. "We can talk later," he begun through an exasperated sigh, nudging your hand away and gathering the finishing touches of your apparel; which consisted of a white-gold collar with flakes of diamonds encrusted into the design. 

Apparently the skintight, diamond dress that represented Medusa at its finest— blinding the thirsty, unquenchable lust of any man with the sugary venom of your body— wasn't enough to satisfy. Reflective luxurious jewelry latched onto all of your joints; ankles and wrists. The leather garders encasing your thighs were suffocating regardless of the amount of times you've worn them. The heels of your feet were already blistering from the compact tightness of your pumps. 

"For now, I need to finish getting you ready."

There was silence, the occasional muffled chatter elicited from the opposite side of the door as Jasek and Finn relaxed—or attempted to, they were just chatting and patiently waiting for you to be finished, when you broke the thickness of the air with a tiny giggle.

"I kind of feel like a princess," you mused playfully, gesturing towards him as he assured the collar was secured around your neck. 

He chuckled wryly, "Because you literally are one." He cocked a brow and grinned.

You both laughed, the tension vanished into a refreshing, serene cloud of tranquility as he was finally content with his work. The boys flung up from their seats, adjusting their button-ups and blazers, stuttering as they eyed you up and down. 

"You look amazing," Jasek offered you a friendly smile and you blushed bashfully. He was typically quiet, nodding along to Finn's words in the corner of the room awkwardly.

"Thanks. You do too." You said, hoping to gain some sort of familiarity with him before you headed for the Gala. He was filling in for Finn tonight, considering the events from the previous night, it was riskier for him to accompany you. He had a prominent, recognizable face, especially with the bruises peppering his skin. The cheap concealer you bought for him at a corner drugstore was fairly concealing and obscuring the markings of his defeat, for the time being. 

"Okay, enough swooning." Poe snapped his fingers hurriedly, glaring at them both and gesturing towards the door as Jasek grabbed his belongings and you tugged on your faux fur coat. "The driver has been waiting for awhile now. The Gala is all the way across the city." He explained, eyes darting between you and Jasek as you both nodded. He lowered himself in his chair, stroking his jaw quizzically, "Try to have fun. Be careful." 

Taking that as a sign to depart for the evening, you bid your farewells with Poe and Finn as they stayed behind at the office. 

The air was cold, the breeze tinged your cheeks a blotchy rouge, even under the layers of makeup. The temperature had dropped tremendously since yesterday, which was just the way New York rolled. The thick coat of tawny faux fur draped over your shoulders did a sufficient job of warming your skin. 

The Cadillac was humming lowly, transmitting the chemically scent of exhaust as it wafted into your face when you rounded the back, slipping into the backseat. Jasek accompanied you only a few seconds after, warming his already gloved hands with the heat of his breath and rubbing them together vigorously. 

The driver from last night was gripping the curve of the wheel with his wrinkled palms as he eyed you suspiciously in the rear view mirror. He had witnessed the fraughting aftermath of last nights events, puzzled and compressed, as he obeyed all of your fretful commands. Apart of you burdened pity for him after the torment you had put the poor man through. 

"Thanks for the help last night." You smiled, crossing your legs and resting your fidgeting hands in your lap as you met his gaze. 

He averted his focus to the road as he shifted gears and started his descent away from the hidden building, the car bounced and clanked as it maneuvered through the cracks of the parking lot, "Just doing my job, miss." He said, glancing at you and then back to the road. 

Currently you were in the outskirts of Brooklyn, and your desired location was at Pier Sixty. A luxurious venue located directly on the pier and overlooking the Hudson River. If you were fortunate enough, you would make it to the event in an hour. Downtown New York was an overpopulated, bustling region for tourists, and you plausibly won't even be on time. 

Leia strived to convince you and Jasek that this would be an exquisite opportunity for you to acquaint yourselves and experience the luxuries of an exclusive event that only members of the NYCoA could attend. New York Club of Arts. Even though the majority of the club were imposters like yourself, masquerading themselves to be professional designers and sculptists or whatever it may be, when in reality vastly everyone there was just plotting to infiltrate their foe. 

According to Leia, you were not the only person deliberating and conducting the plan to assassinate Kylo Ren. Which for the record, his presence at the Gala tonight was not guaranteed. She confirmed that a few of his associates would be attending, and if you couldn't find him, coaxing intel out of his business partners would be a liable option.

After a few torturously long minutes in a painstaking silence, you had arrived to the Gala. The countless rows of limos and the bewitching, enchanting dresses and suits flooding your vision failed to impress you, when the sunset was painting the sky and the rippling, billowing water beneath it. 

It was breathtaking, the plums merging with the apricot oranges, illuminating the Hudson River with the amber, nectarous sheen of the setting sun as it dispersed behind the curve of the Earth, waving its tender goodbyes as it tediously vanished.

Jasek aided you with his arm looped around yours, the driver pulled away from the clustered sidewalk and parked in a secluded parking garage, informing you of its coordinates in case of an emergency. 

The persistent flashing of cameras was obscuring your vision. The outcome of the photos would all be you with a squinting grimace. Although, the paparazzi were idealistically going to discard any photos that didn't involve a celebrity, and there appeared to be loads of them. 

Shuffling through the velvety stanchions lining the monumental foyer, your jaw dropped in astonishment once you had entered the lavishing venue. Voluminous classical jazz was rattling the carcass of the building, crystal, golden chandeliers radiated warm gradients along the floors and the walls, the proficient stage was being embellished by spotlights. 

"This place is..." You trailed off, observing the details of the striking ballroom. 

"Beautiful." Jasek breathed, eyeing the room with equal captivation. 

Attendants were staggering all around, guiding numerous parties to their designated tables. You and Jasek gratefully weren't accompanied by another pair of guests at your table, offering you the privacy you would need to discuss things. Over the blaring music and the rest of the room erupting with chatter, you were in solitude. 

"I've met two of Kylo Ren's associates." You said, Jasek raised a brow and nodded for you to continue, both of you gaping at the crowd. "One of them is dead. The other one might be here." 

As the evening continued, there was no sign of Kylo Ren, or any of his associates that you were familiar with. At this point, the caterers have already made their rounds, and you and Jasek have had an excessive amount of champagne. When he was drunk, he reminded you of Poe; Goofy and flirtatious. 

"Want to dance?" He slurred with a cocked brow, his chair screeched across the floor as he wobbly stood and dramatically bowed down and offered you a hand. 

You had cut back on the alcohol a few rounds ago, you believed it was for the best not only for your liver and blatter, but because it was plausible for atleast one of you to be on high-alert. Jasek on the other hand... was gone. 

"Sure!" You chirped, slipping your hand into his and he tugged you up forcefully. 

He firmly grasped your hip with one hand, the other was gripping your hand loosely as you swayed your bodies to the light tempo of the music, singing the lyrics to an Amy Winehouse song playfully. 

Everything was fine, alarmingly so. 

That is until the energy shifted in the ballroom, the music had seamlessly dispersed from classical to purely scandalous. You and Jasek had decided to retire from the dance floor.

Just as you pivoted to return to your table, a deep, bone-chilling voice commanded your name. 

"Do you mind if I borrow her?" The baritone voice asked. You leisurely swiveled to come face to face with Kylo Ren, radiating all of the daunting glory he carried.

"Go ahead!" Jasek called over his shoulder without bothering to turn around, "Shes all yours!"

Your breath was harbored in your chest, a thick lump of saliva refused to slither down your throat. 

Before you could protest, he pounced on you with heavy, deliberate strides, his ravenous gaze burning holes through yours as your breaths quickened in your chest. 

He threaded his fingers with yours, sending a jolt of electricity coursing through your veins and tingling your limbs, his free hand gripped your waist, thumb pinching the fabric softly between his fingers. He yanked you closer to his chest and you squeaked, your bodies pressed together. 

He swayed you lightly to the music, the leather of his conventional, black balmoral's worked in rhythm with your heels as he peered down at you with a cunning, enthralling smirk, bending slightly at the waist, his lips ghosting the lobe of your ear. 

"I thought I was very clear," he mumbled, his deep voice laced with deterrents. His chest expanded with his deep breath, "When I told you, to stay out of my business." 

On your tiptoes, your grip subconsciously tightened around the back of his blazer, "I will, from now on." You mumbled softly into his ear, obliviously making unkeepable promises. 

He leaned back into his original position, releasing your waist momentarily and spinning you slowly, before capturing your hip and regaining his footing. He had that deceitful, amused side smirk tugging at his lips, sending shivers up the curve of your spine as his hand abandoned your hip a second time, cupping your cheek instead. 

"Tesoro." He sighed disappointedly, shaking his head, his gelled locks bouncing as his face inched closer to yours. "I'm afraid it's too late for that." He muttered, swiping his thumb along your bottom lip and smearing your lipstick, pinching it and tilting your face from side to side vigorously as you huffed. 

"You've already chosen to disobey my requests." He retorted mundanely, inching even closer, and your breath caught in your lungs when his plump lips ghosted the corner of your mouth.

"I won't let you get away this time." He whispers into the plush skin, a wildfire of coyness spreading across you cheeks. "You are going to help me." 

You scowled, regardless of the exuberance pumping through your veins, and the tingling of your skin where his hand rested gradually. "I think i've done enough for you, without anything in return." You spat mildly, glimpsing the ballroom through your peripherals to assure yourself nobody was watching you. 

"Not something like that," He snapped through taut lips, mimicking your actions and glancing around the room before his hand rounded the curve of your hip and slithered up your back until he was cupping the back of your neck, fingers feathering through your hair as he aggressively tilted your head backwards. 

"You were so eager for the details of my business before," he muttered misleadingly, jaw slack and clenching as he poked his inner cheek with his tongue, "Now I am offering you an up close and personal view of all of it. Isn't that what you want?"

You hesitated, meeting the black oblivion of his unsettlingly tranquil, serene gaze, before you nodded cautiously. "Good." He cracked a toothy, prudent grin with a breathy chuckle, loosening his grip. He pressed another fervent, albeit controlled kiss to your lips, pulling away with the expression the kiss was meaningless. 

Deep down, the rational half of your notion was positive that his ginger touches were just apart of his master plan, his plot to abolish his enemies. The other half had seized your limbs, controlling them as their own, manipulated by the tenderness of his lips. 

"We are going to have so much fun." His gaze darkened and penetrated you, his tone was rich with sinister impulsiveness. He swiped his thumb along your chin and ridded the smeared lipstick. "Follow me." 

Regret was twisting your dignity, knotting your guts with self-repugnance. And yet you trailed behind him like a deprived animal, sniffing out the scent of your prey, desperate and yearning for a cure to your starvation. His fingers were still interlocked with yours, the clanking of your heels a repetitive prompt of your actions as he guided you towards the exit of the building with brisk strides. 

Glancing over your shoulder, seeking out Jasek, you were relieved to see him content and pacific with his actions, conversing with a young woman with quietude. Granted that he was temporarily refined from his intoxication, you were comforted with the knowledge that he would be fine without you for a few minutes. Or hours. Hopefully not the latter. 

"Where are we going?" You asked interrogatively, hurriedly quickening your steps to match his. 

"My car." He responded dryly, monotonously.

Eyes widened in shock, you shook your head in disapproval, "I'm not leaving with you." 

He glared at you sharply from over his shoulder, "Nobody said you were." He scolded through gritted teeth, biting his tongue with irritation and shuffling through the crowd with you stomping on his heels, "Just be quiet."

With a bitter scoff, you chewed your bottom lip and remained silent nevertheless. Even though there was a vibrant, palpable hatred for him, there was also a raw tension kindling a flame between you that simply couldn't be disregarded. 

The air was arctic, nipping at your skin with its frigid, unwelcoming breeze. The muscles in your feet were cramping, screaming with anguish, blistered and tensed in your pumps. Kylo Ren was wordless, his silence was suffocating and crude. You muttered complaints to yourself over the pain in your soles and the coldness biting your skin. He had enough after five prolonged minutes. 

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" He abruptly halted and swiveled to face you aggressively, face contorting into a depiction of exasperation as his eyebrows crinkled together with genuine bewilderment.

"My fucking feet hurt!" You shouted, squeezing his hand tighter for support as you waved your heeled foot in front of him, rolling your ankle, "You try dancing around in these for five hours." You grumbled resentfully, snatching your hand away from his and crossing your arms defensively. 

He blinked at you rapidly, jaw clamped shut and clenching. Then he dropped to one knee, his knees cracked from his hasty movement. He patted his shoulder, glancing up at you expectantly, before his calloused fingers clutched one of your pumps. 

You lunged forward with a dumbfounded squeak and grasped both of his bulky, square shoulders as he diligently slipped one of your heels off of your feet, grasping your ankle gently, as if you were a fragile piece of architecture that would crack beneath him. 

He mimicked this action for your other foot, your feet were iced from the glacial surface of the sidewalk, the frostiness of the concrete numbed the aching in the pads of your feet. Although it was unsanitary, the relief was vanquishing. 

He sprung up from his crouching position, "Better?" He asked apathetically. You nodded warily, his pointer and middle finger were curled as he looped them into the heels of your pumps, swinging them vigorously by his side as his other hand seized your wrist and continued dragging you along the sidewalk. 

The soft pitter-patter of your feet was less irksome than the clank of your heels, and although they were fatigued and eager for a break, you felt way better with them off. You fumbled through the interior pockets of your coat, untucking a cigarette. "Need to smoke?" You asked nonchalantly. He remained silent before he froze in his tracks and nodded with extortion, snatching yours out of your hand.

You blinked at him, huffing with irritation, untucking your second cigarette. "Let's stop for now. My car is parked two blocks away anyways." He said, leaning against the steel guardrail and popping his cigarette into his mouth, staring off in the distance, observing the gentle flow of the Hudson River through squinted eyes as he lit it. 

The moon cascaded down and reflected off of the black expanse of trickling water, illuminating the buzzing city streets with its blue sheen. You lit your own cigarette, mocking his stature, side-eyeing him with curiosity. As malicious and cruel as he was, you could sense his tranquility, his sedated trance. It was tactile when you were surrounded by the peaceful scenery of the rippling water and the calmness of the night sky. 

"Has anybody ever taught you that it's rude to stare?" He muttered, concentrated on the cloud of smoke accumulating in the air surrounding him, vanishing from the intense breeze, staining his roman nose a rosy pink. 

You simply averted your gaze, not offering him the amusement of your sheepishness. After you took a harsh drawl of your cigarette, warmth pooled in your belly, calming your frenetic nerves. 

The two of you remained in a distressing silence, smoking, hovering a few feet away from each other. His fingers were managing the steel grip he had on your heels as if he had the intention to never let them go. He smashed the bud of his cigarette into the railing, tossing it carelessly into the water. You mocked his action with the knowledge of how grimy and nauseatingly filthy the river was anyways. 

You regained your footing, strutting through the downtown streets hand in hand, his warm palm was consoling even though it should've been repulsive. This was the same man that had made you bleed, tormented you with his degradation, and threatened you a handful of times. But on the contrary, he was the same man that had just kissed you with a patient passion that made your knees tremble.

You refrained from complaining even as your legs were prickled by pins and needles with numbness from the cold biting at your bare skin, when the melody of a car horn chirping ricocheted off of the bypassing buildings, and Kylo Ren halted in front of a Lamborghini. 

The exterior was spotless, a dazzling, seductive cherry red. The surface was shiny, waxed and neatly polished. "Nice ride," you mumbled with fascination, subconsciously outstretching your fingers to graze it. He pawed your hand away aggressively, slapping it. You winced and brought your knuckles to your lips, suckling on the stinging skin. 

"Don't touch it." He growled, swinging the backdoor open shrewdly, placing your pumps down on the leather seats. He bent at the waist and rummaged through a duffle bag as you bounced on your heels and studied your surroundings. 

"This is just the payment for considering the offer i'm about to make you," he grunted, cramming the bag under the seat. Your eyebrows furrowed quizzically as he held the door open and nudged a colossal stack of money towards you, bundled with profession by a band, crisp and faultless. 

He slammed the door shut and swiveled to face you. You reached for it eagerly, he clicked his tongue and waved a finger at you, holding it higher as you pouted. "You're going to work for me." He stated with assertiveness, confident of his commands, "I pay with money. And anything else you choose." He raised his brow knowingly, "You already know too much, and if you deny my demands, I'm afraid I can't let you go unscathed." He said earnestly, you opened your mouth to speak and he continued. 

"I don't want to kill you." He breathed, "But I will. Just take the money and keep that mouth of yours shut." He waved the money around in your face tauntingly, "I'll give you time to make your decision." He slapped the stash of money into your opened palm, feathering a hand through his black locks, pressing his back into the Lambo. 

"I... I'm already employed somewhere." You drawled accusingly, slipping the cash into your coat pocket, "Thanks for the money, though." 

He stared at you blankly, before a hysterical chuckle passed through his lips and he hushed himself with his knuckle, "Of fucking course you are, I'm not an idiot." He barked, rolling his eyes with another humorless chuckle, "I'm asking you to betray them. Bring me information on their plots and i'll pay you." 

Apart of you considered his offer, and you loathed yourself for it. Then you got to pondering, and the sum of money you would be granted for obliterating Kylo Ren was merely half the times larger than the cash he had just paid you for thinking about being treacherous and betraying the resistance.

And then Poe came to mind, and the idealistics of your thoughts to shatter your loyalties to the resistance had been glazed over by a blurry haze of sensibleness. That was just something you couldn't do, even if you wanted to. 

"I need to think about this." You stated grievously, adjusting your coat, "It's not... going to be easy."

He snorted, head bowed lowly as he shook his head in disbelief and stared at the pavement beneath his feet. "I told you I would give you time to think." He condescended, "And I don't see the difficulties. Either you die or listen to me. You choose."

He rounded the opposite side of the car, breaching the drivers door open forcefully. He stared at you suggestively, gesturing towards the passenger side impatiently and sliding into his seat. You slipped into the passenger side, shifting uncomfortably, sealing the door shut. 

"Take me back to the Gala." You gulped, resting your hands in your lap and massaging your knuckles nervously, glancing around the luxury interior of his vehicle. 

"Right, can't keep your little friend waiting." He mused dryly, revving the engine of the Lambo and zipping through the streets at an ungodly speed as the car rattled, one of his veiny hands clutched the wheel, the other was stroking his jaw as he propped his elbow up on the windowsill. 

Another vacant void of silence consumed the air, the drive back to the venue lasted scarcely five minutes, swift in comparison to the walk. A chauffeur greeted you by the entrance, opening the door for you as you slipped out. 

Kylo was quick to reach behind him and grab your pumps, shoving them across the seat. You scooped them up and the chauffeur slammed the door shut. He sped away from the side walk, the whirring of his engine echoed along the street as the pristine red of his Lambo evaporated into nothingness, disappearing down the street. 

You loitered by the curve of the road, blinking at the emptiness, before you staggered towards the entrance and rigidly slipped your pumps back on, whining from the discomfort. You were ecstatic for the moment you could collect Jasek and his drunken self and just go home. Hopefully, he had recovered from the energetic state of his intoxication and he would be slumped on the ride back to Brooklyn. 

But as you brushed through the zestful crowd of partiers and neared your table for the night... you noticed that Jasek was gone. Before you allowed the panic to seep in, you paced the floors of the ballroom, searching every corner fretfully, and even popping your head into the men's restroom. 

And he was nowhere. He was actually gone.


	8. Men In Black

The scariest part about your already frightening predicament... was the phone call with Poe you would have to conjure in order to successfully convey the detrimental news about Jasek's disappearance.

He was simply nowhere to be found.

"He's gone. All of his stuff is, too." You rambled, apprehensively feathering your clammy fingers through your hair, eyebrows permanently crinkled together in trepidation.

The money weighed down the pockets of your faux-fur coat with a sense of culpability. A wave of guilt washed over and completely submerged you, as you toyed with the stack of cash, that was crammed into your pocket.

"Just breathe," Poe tried to pacify you with his serenity, his tone proving he deemed the whole situation as trite. "We will find him. I'm sure everything's alright. Like you said, he was tipsy."

"Yes... but this feels different," you breathe in exasperation, slipping a cigarette into your mouth, lighting it briskly, "I just have a terrible feeling about this.." your lips quiver as you seal them around your cigarette and take a lengthy drawl. 

"I already have a team searching for him all around Pier Sixty." He consoled through an agitated breath, "Just contact the driver and head back to the office, my men will find Jasek and bring him back, safely." He instructed. 

You toss your cigarette onto the sidewalk, squishing it aggressively with the point of your heel. "Fine." You grumble, exhaling a hefty cloud of smoke through the corner of your lips, "See you later, babe." 

The driver had already informed you of his coordinates. It was a tedious walk to the Cadillac, as the frigid New York breeze nipped at your bare legs. Goosebumps speckle your skin, even as you slip into the backseat of the car, exhaling an icy-vapor.

"I want to reroute." You demand. Shifting upon the cold leather, shuddering, kneading your arms to warm yourself.

The driver glances at you stoically in the rear-view mirror as he pulls out of the parking lot reluctantly. "Dameron has already inquired me with s—"

"Well, Poe isnt here, now is he?" You remark tetchily, rolling your eyes.

The driver sighs monotonously. "You're right, miss." He breathes begrudgingly. "Rerouting to wherever you choose."

***

The cities glacial air caressed you with a cold embrace. Three hours ago, you forcefully requested that your driver kick you to the curb of one of New York's main stretches, that housed an abundance of bars and clubs. If Jasek was meandering anywhere publicly— it would be a place that served alcoholic beverages.

You conveyed yourself sluggishly along the sidewalks. The straps of your heels looped tautly between your fingers. Scouting out every crevice and cranny, ever building and alleyway. Rationally, he had disappeared. The cognitive part of you already knew how poorly his odds were looking; but you had already devoted yourself to returning your friend home safely before the sun has fully risen. 

You had descended through the trivial, slummier areas of the city. It was eerily glum, shadowy, vacant. You were rounding a corner, when you heard an agonizing, guttural scream. A boisterous male scream, that reverberated around the empty streets. 

You increased your pace with a sliver of motivation, pivoting around another corner. Staggering to a stop when your vision perceives suspicious activity. It was a black, polished Cadillac, nearly identical to the one your driver had chaperoned you around the city in only hours before. 

You narrow your eyes, observing the exterior of the SUV, as six mountainous men garbed in matching tuxedos grapple with Jasek. Hostilely cramming him into the already-overflowing vehicle. 

"Hey!" You strained your voice as you screamed out a protest. Stilling when every single one of them snapped their gazes to you.

Your breath hitches, stomach churning, when a pair of green, negatively-familiar eyes flicker over your face. It was Vicrul. The man from that night. The man you thought that you murdered. And there he stood—alive and vital, durably functioning. Burley and just as formally clad as ever.

He ceased his assistance, tardily dropping his gloved hands to his sides. He mutters something to one of the other men, adjusting the straps of his suspenders, as he starts to stride his way over to you with powerful marches.

He snarls, stomping in your direction with forceful clicks of his balmorals. You bolt across the street, pebbles prickling at the pads of your feet, panting.

Vicrul groans, chasing after you with tedious, calm strides— nearly heedlessly.

"Stop running," he hisses. "We aren't going to kill your friend." He shouts, tone assertive.

You scramble to a halt, swiveling sharply to have him. "What the fuck do you want, then? Hm?" You demand snarkily, eyebrows knitting together, breaths labored.

He shrugs mundanely. "My job isn't to ask questions," he states pointedly, "It's to follow orders." 

He pauses for a moment. You scrutinize him, skewering his every dangerous intent. It was difficult, when his contradicting persona was clouding your judgement. He strokes his jaw, staring back at you.

Then, he lunges an attack on you.

You scream, as he plows his bulky shoulder through your abdomen, scooping you up belligerently. Your legs flail and kick to no avail, your shrieks shredding through your throat, fists pounding into his back.

He moves with stealth, proving that your fighting was a waste of energy. You yelp, and curse, and thrash, only for his deadly grasp to bear you firmly to his shoulder. Hauling you like you were a sack of potatoes.

You writhe in his hold as he slams your feet to the cement, propelling your back into the shimmering surface of the Cadillac. Hands twining your wrists, squeezing, pinning them forcefully above your head.

"Now. You're going to get in this fucking car." He squeezes your wrists hard enough to fracture your joints. You squirm, whimpering, bucking your hips up to shove him away. "You hear me?"

Your nostrils flare. "Fuck you!" You sneer, collecting a wad of salvia in the back of your throat, blasting him in the face.

He recoils, ripping his hands away from your frail limbs. You kick yourself off of the SUV, only to be ladled by another pair of muscular arms. Being dragged back. Feet skidding and pounding into the ground, scraped and bloodied, chafes from rocks searing into the skin. Screams crawling up your throat.

"Shut up—" Cardo grunts, hauling you back. He manages to store you aggressively into the backseat. "You didn't tell me you were a fucking psychopath when we first met, hm?" He breathes, quipping jarringly, hands latched to your biceps to hold you still.

"I'm no worse than you, asshole!" You spit venom back maliciously, wriggling your shoulders.

Jasek's voice slurs your name. "Calm d-down. We'll be fine. Promise." He drawls. Head lulling to crash into the window, breaths fogging the glass.

"Is he okay?" You gape at Cardo, shifting away from his touch. You cup Jasek's kneecap, caressing it platonically. Soothingly. Rubbing his leg maternally, the charms upon your designer bracelet chiming. "Are you okay?"

He glares sharply at Cardo, whom lingered in the doorway, blocking you both in with his broad build. The other men conversed enigmatically, murmuring. He averts his bloodshot gaze back to you, nodding swiftly.

"Let's go." You circle his wrist softly, diligently peeling him off of the seat. "I'm going to get you out of here." You whisper.

Cardo barks out a laugh, reprimanding you by gripping your elbows, denying you any mobility. "You're so cute," he snorts, blockading your exit with his body, "What the hell do you think you're doing?" 

You grimace, narrowing your eyes at him.

"Everybody wrap it up!" Vicrul insists, tone firm and earnest, emerging through the cluster of men in black. All of the men move urgently to enter the SUV, filing in from the trunk. Two men, including Vicrul, topple through the front. Cardo joins you in the back.

Jasek's neck cranes feebly, head crashing into your shoulder. He mumbles drearily into your skin, smacking his lips, nuzzling into you. 

Vicrul shifts gears, the engine whirring boisterously, rumbling, as the car zilches away from the street you were previously stationed on. You grapple onto Cardo's blazer for support as you lunge forward, using your free arm to extend it protectively in front of Jasek's chest.

"What are we doing with his girl?" One of the men barked gruffly from behind. 

You chew your inner cheek, glancing over your shoulder. You were bombarded by a mass of menacing men in all black, opulent attire. Three pairs of dauntless, diverse eyes locked on yours. 

"His?" You scoff sharply. "Fuck him. And fuck all of you."

All of the men in the back snicker darkly at that, grumbling amused snark back. A suffocating silence brims the Cadillac, the air being polluted with the scent of pure formidability and all things masculine.

Noisy static interrupts the unpacifying silence. The man in the passenger seat sighs exaggeratedly. Shuffling through the pocket of his trench coat. Roughly undrawing a transmitter. "Yes?" He grumbles, holding it merely two inches away from his face. 

You listen attentively, head bowed lowly, thumbs twiddling.

"Ap'lek." That husky, baritone voice drawls. Thick with a sputter of white noise.

"You have him." He says. Voice vacant of any emotion, plainly deadpan.

Ap'lek shifts. You concentrate, zoning in on him inquisitively, as tangible unease starts to pulsate off of his luxuriously coated body. 

He clears his throat. "Yes, sir. And we have the girl." He responds candidly, monotone. 

He was rewarded with a deadly amount of silence back. Your eyes widen as the tension only builds, ascending higher and higher up the ladder of fear and turmoil. You were growing nauseated by the second, as the transmitter only screeches with static, and hefty breathing.

Cardo exchanges a queasy, knowing look with one of the men housed in the back.

"The girl." Kylo Ren drawls leisurely, emphasizing each letter with a frothing deliberance. 

"Yes," Ap'lek breathes wearily back, "The one from the—" 

"I know which girl you meant." Kylo snaps, his voice straining in annoyance. He sighs.

"She interfered with our task, sir." Ap'lek defends bluntly. He shoots you an accusatory glare, and you antagonize him by sticking your tongue out, grinning.

Kylo huffs. "Of course she did." He muses gravelly, muttering with a bite to his words. There was an idle pause. "Tie her up. Now." The device crackles as he roars into the mic.

"Excuse me?" You snap, arching a brow. Glancing around the vehicle, searching for the antidote to your bewilderment: only to be permitted with a low chuckle from the back of the car.

"And for the guy?" Ap'lek sighs, adjusting the collar of his coat, swallowing.

"Leave him." He orders imperatively.

The line disconnects, fizzing out. Ap'lek tucks his transmitter away, as Cardo prepares to comply to his bosses unwarranted commands. 

"Hand me the ropes," Cardo says, gesturing to the men in the back. They all huddle and rummage through the supplies being stored in the back. One of them shuffles back up with a bundle of thick, tethered rope. Tossing the rope to Cardo from over the ledge of the seat. 

He grasps your bicep with a belligerent squeeze. Ap'lek swivels around and assists him by yanking your other arm, wrenching it forcefully. They mold and wrestle you into the peculiar position they desire. You squirm and grunt, flapping away from there coarse handling.

Sweat muddled your clammy skin, sticky strands of untamed hair lapping to your flushed face. At this point, you had been discarded to the floor. The rubber floormats were indenting crimson, dotted blemishes into your knees as you shifted your hips down. Cardo pinned your face into the seat, cupping the side of your head, as Ap'lek finished binding your wrists together. 

You thrash arduously, and Ap'lek snickers at your pathetic attempt at freeing yourself of the taut restraints. He tightens the overbearing rope, and you yelp in agony, as pins and needles prickle at your fingertips.

"Is this really necessary?" You croak, words muffling into the seat, drool lapping to the conventional leather. You crane your neck bizarrely to spear him with a look of contempt.

"Can you get your fucking hand off of me?" You hiss bitterly into the virtuous velour seating arrangement. 

"Can you shut the fuck up before I put a muzzle on that bitchy mouth of yours?" One of the men in the back snides the daunting remark. Laughing sinisterly at his own snarf.

"Fuck you!" You spat bitterly, the cracking of your neck resounded as you ripped it from Cardo's vice grasp and snarled at the man. 

"Like a muzzle would ever shut her up!" Another chimes in, everyone muttering in grumbled, glum agreement.

"I wonder how she'd do with one of Ren's ball-gags." A third one pipes, a ripple of deep, approving chuckles following that statement.

Your cheeks blister sheepishly at the bawdy remarks, a shiver crawling up your spine.

The brakes of the vehicle squeak as the SUV deliberately rolls to a stop. Halting at the base of a shadowy, cataclysmic alleyway. The moons misanthropic glow illuminating it ominously.

Everybody files out of the Cadillac briskly. Cardo assists you in slipping out of the backseat, bunching you by your eloped wrists. Two of the men from the trunk of the car were conveying Jasek through the glum alley, supporting his flimsy, weak limbs.

Your barefeet collect moisture as they patter across the grimy, damp tarmac. Toppling languidly through the congested space.

Puddles of flaky, dried, molten-black blood pooled on the cold cement surrounding the corridor. Peppering the walls in crimson speckles, fresh beadlets that appeared to be merely an hour old drizzling upon the bricks. 

Cardo wreathes you to an impactful halt, your feet staggering below you, as he commits his next action in one seamless motion—

A black, silk rag blemished with chloroform is muzzled over your lips and nose, your body being wrenched back by his burley arm that embraces you around the shoulders and wrings you back into his chest unvehemently. He smothers your mouth and the tip of your nose with the drug-swathed cloth, your screams vanquishing and fading through the rag as a darkness consumes your vision.

***

A white, artificial light flourishes your vision. Illuminating the blurry space around you. A groggy cry slithers up your throat, eyes weakly fluttering, as you observe your unfamiliar surroundings. It was an armory; upscale, high-tech, supplied with an abundance of queer, desolate weapons of all shapes and design.

The cold, cement floor numbed your limbs. As you sprawl lethargically upon the hard surface. You stagger upwards, landing on your knees, a panic surging through your veins.

Just across the armory, was the Brunello-Cucinelli clad back of Kylo Ren. His muscles flexing, piercing through the overpriced cashmere, that clings to every ridge of his tattooed arms. His hands worked at scrubbing the blade of his knife clean.

"You're awake." He greets. Voice low and baritone. Not bothering to remove his eyes from his polished weaponry.

"What the fuck is going on?" You demand, shrilling the words apprehensively. Your voice quivered with fear and confusion.

A chuckle rumbles in the back of his chest. He rolls his broad shoulders, beckoning you with his fingers. Still disregarding you.

You ascend crookedly to your feet, whimpering. "Can you please untie me?" You plead, whining, scurrying over to him with uneven, wobbled strides. Your vision was a muddled blur, a twinge of pain nipping at your brain.

He scoffs. Readjusting the array of weapons that scatter across the titanium counter. The arches, and carves, and ribbons of his tattoos bleeding through the nearly translucent chiffon. The designs were potent and uncanny with twisted symbolism.

"And why would I do that, poor little tesoro?" He teases. Lips forming into a faux-pout, as he flashes you a deadpan look. He hums, arching a brow.

You blink drowsily. Slowly. Struggling to grapple onto anything other than the buzz that soars about your system. "You're..." you trail off when a smirk starts to toy with his plump, nearly clairvoyant lips. "Insufferable."

He huffs. "That's a lousy way to put it." He says, swiping all of the weapons aside with a boisterous clatter of metal.

He fumbles with the molasses-stained, glass bottle of chloroform situated on the counter. You gulp, chin quivering, as you watch his actions vigilantly. He extends for the rag. Calmly dousing the cloth in the detrimental poison. 

"W-wait... No!" You protest, limping reluctantly away, stumbling over your own two feet. "Kylo..."

He creeps nearer with calculated strides, meticulous and calm, holding the rag tenderly. "Don't make it any harder than it needs to be, tesoro." He gruffs quietly. 

His hand shoots out to engulf your throat, backing you into the metal Island centering the armory. He bunches the cloth and cocoons your face with the lethal chemicals, depraving you of air, smothering your lungs with the liquid poison.

You shrill muffled cries into the cloth, tears soaking your cheeks, as you thrash and kick in his arms.

"Shhh." He coos. Through the blemished, double-blurred vision you were enduring, you could see his brooding face looming over yours emotionlessly. He strokes your cheek. "Let it take you, bambola."

"P-please." Was the last thing you slurred before your eyes rolled to the back of your head, that lulled dolefully to the side, neck craning.

The cold, metal surface of the counter was situated upon your back, mounted by the sweat that perspires there. All you see is a dopple of dull colors. The black blur of Kylo Ren's raven hair, and the pudgy blob of his satiny skin. He murmurs obscenities to you, that were incohesive in your dazed mind.

"Have you made a decision?" His voice scrutinizes. It was a taunt. Echoing around the depths of your mind like a broken record.

"Mm." You mewl back. Eyes skewered shut. Body squirming into his squared chest that swells into your frame, radiating a tactile warmth. "N-no."

His hand encompasses your throat. Applying firm pressure with his calloused fingertips, the heel of his palm wedging into your goblet. Restricting your already sparse airflow.

"You're time is up." He growls.

You wheeze hoarsely, trembling fingers clawing at his hands. Your eyes roll open, fluttering defeatedly, screwing shut tautly.

"I've done enough waiting, little girl."

"I-I—" You croak sheepishly.

One of his fingers escapes its death-grasp around your throat, slithering up to stroke your jaw.

"I h-hate you!" You spew, words bleeding together, head reeling back drearily.

He demolished his restraint upon your throat— in which you heave and rake in hitched breaths, coughing. Body squirming away from the tender touches he plants, his hands gliding to your hips. Hoisting your nearly immobile frame onto the counter.

All you could comprehend was the glacial titanium that coerced the plump flesh of your thighs. He chuckles. Rubbing your thigh, massaging, running his hand gently up and down. Mentally, you could not distinguish your surroundings, or even recite your middle name. Physically, your body was tingling torridly with inclination, as his forbidden touch rooted to your skin.

He leisurely parts your thighs using his hips, creeping into the space between your legs. You shiver, sniffling, allowing the tears to cascade freely down your cheeks. Your thumbs twiddle together in their restraints.

"Please..." you blubber skittishly, dilated eyes flickering open to flash around his face, struggling to seek out his honey-orbs. You could merely make anything out.

"Please?" He mimics. Caressing your tear-stained cheeks with his thumbs, ridding the tears. "Pretty please?" He chuckles sinisterly as he patronizes your pleads.

The cedar-musk that feasts on his inked-up flesh starts to pollute within your nostrils. Urging you to scrunch your nose.

His thumb strokes your bottom lip. Slipping through, flattening earnestly on your tongue. You hum, tongue swiveling to collect the salt of your tears that bead off of his calloused finger.

You absently wiggle your wrists, the rope kneading your flesh rouge and raw. Your lips were parted eagerly to welcome both his index and middle finger, that taste of danger, motor oil and gun-metal.

As his fingers thrust through your drooling lips, he attacked your pulse with benign, passionate kisses. Lapping at his own saliva that dribbles from his swollen lips, sinking fiery-red welts into your throat.

"Mmph..." You gurgle around his rough fingers, suckling on his digits, eyes closed as you bask in the migraine that raptures your skull, and the taste of formidability that mingles with his skin.

"Naughty girl." He mutters into your skin. Other hand groping at your inner thigh. He groans when you buck your hips into his pelvis, legs easing begrudgingly around his hips. 

His fingers slip out of your mouth, hand slithering down your thigh, fingers ghosting your wet panties. "You say you hate me..." he inquests knowingly. Dipping his hand into your panties, stroking your slick folds, and you moan softly. "But this pretty little cunt is dripping for me."

His tongue swipes a sticky, tobacco latticed stripe across your jawline. You grimace, thrashing, as he chuckles into you.

"You're so wet." He snickers. "Even with my men torturing your colleague for intel only a room over."

"What?" You gasp, flailing into him with a determined grunt. "P-please. Don't hurt h-him. Take m-me instead." You ramble.

His thumb brushes the apple of your coyly flushed cheek. "You know I can take whatever I want. Don't you." He mumbles menacingly.

He tampers with a glistening object in your peripherals. It was impossible to discern when your vision was just a clouded blur. His hand mundanely fists the hilt of his freshly waxed knife. He scrapes the blade across the counters metal surface, an antagonizing screech following the slow movement.

He caresses your jaw with the flat, dull expanse of the glowing knife. The frigid iron of the blade was cold enough to numb any of your previous regret. You stare through him with bloodshot, quaking doe eyes and fluttering lashes. A drowsy smirk tugs at your lips.

"You f-fucker." You hiss futilely.

His nostrils flare acutely, as he whips the blade around and forges the keen, pointy edge to your throat. The sharp metal was thumping into your pulse, that skyrockets dangerously high.

A sliver of arrousel crawls up your spine. You shiver, eyes dancing around his face in an aimless attempt at seeing him. He drags the tip of the blade along your clavicle, tracing your collarbone. The flat piece of the blade drills up into your chin, belligerently angling it upwards, earning him a distorted moan out of you.

"Hm. Little whore." He says, as he observes you with his ravenous gaze. The tip of the knife starts to protrude through your flesh just by a millimeter, shifting leisurely into your skin. A bead of blood dribbles down your chin.

The knife maneuvers to your lips. Flattening on your plush, bottom lip, dragging along the pink flesh tantalizingly.

Your breath hitches and you yelp, ringing your leg back to kick him in his groin— only for his free hand to circle your ankle and jerk your leg back seconds before you had made the damaging blow. 

He squeezes your calf, nails embedding into the skin, as he hauls your body tauter to his. Snarling through clenched teeth. He lashes your face with the flat side of the knife. You gasp, cheek tingling and blotching with the mark of inimical titanium.

"Watch it." He scolds, narrowing his eyes. He fumbles for a bundle of rope that piled trivially upon the counter.

You refrain from opposing his next movements, as your body weeps with fatigue and your mind dizzies in exhaustion. 

You whine, kicking and shucking your legs under the curve of the counter, shaking your head vigorously in protest. "No, no, no!" You repeat, pounding your heels into the counter.

He hostilely loops the rope in two-taut bowline ties around your ankles, one on each, stringing them up to the bottom corners of the counter. Forcing your legs to spread open widely.

This diversion grants him a salacious view of your dripping cunt, your wetness leaking through your panties. You nibble on your lip coyly. Your skin was ablaze with a flame of humiliation, as the muscles in your hamstrings strain and belch in agony from the unnatural position. 

He lecherously reacquaints himself with the space between your legs. Grinding his pelvis into you tediously, as you stifle a mewl from the friction this projects. 

"How badly do you want this?" He murmurs dauntingly, removing a hand from your thigh to unzip his pants deliberately, licking his plump lips.

You gulp down your pride and trepidation, shifting into the rocking of his hips.

"I... I want it." You whine breathily, jutting out your wobbly bottom lip.

"Good girls say please." He cocks an appointed brow. Slipping his cock out tauntingly. His methodical movements were alluring, as he fists his shaft patiently, free hand massaging at your hip through your dress that was hiked up.

You grumble, "Please. I need it." 

A titillating need harvests in your core when he strikes your cheek with his knuckles. "That won't do it, no." He utters, Italian accent potently popping through.

His breath reeks of tobacco and Buchanan-Scotch whiskey. Captivating you with its intoxicating scent. The scent of him alone was enough to mold your morals into mush, and make you succumb to this act of treacherous lechery you were prepared to commit.

"I'm going to fuck this tight little cunt. And you're going to scream for me while I do it."

Your cheeks were flushing a shameful rouge. Pussy fluttering from his lewd words. Discombobulated eyes wide with famished desire for the million dollar man and all of the deceit he festered. 

You nod in sultry, unwavering approval.

"Theres my good little whore." He purrs maliciously. His finger loops around the string of your panties— ripping them off completely with a snagged belch of lace. "Look at how wet you are." He prods his fingers at your entrance to gather a pool of your juices.

He pumps his shaft with it, guiding the throbbing head through your slick folds. Rubbing it on your stimulated, wet clit. 

His hand was sticky with his precum as he clasped your throat, teasing your throbbing clit by prodding at your entrance and lapping up your wetness, trailing it back to your tingling bundle of nerves. You moaned richly, tensing and wiggling in your restraints. 

He slammed you back first into the counters surface, your back arched as you nestled your twined wrists under the curve of your spine. He loomed over you, pressing his chest into yours.

Your core burned with a salacious, scorching fire of relief when his cock sheathed your entrance. Your walls expanded with a painful stretch, pussy grappling onto the veins of his shaft, as you wailed from the pleasurable burn overtaking your cunt.

He gritted his teeth, sparing you a millisecond to accommodate to his massive girth, as he starts pounding into you mercilessly. "You're just a dirty little slut for me to play with, hm?" 

You nodded fervently, eyebrows knitting together in bliss. Your jaw goes slack as his dick strikes your cervix with each ruthless, powerful thrust, leaving you a complete and utter moaning mess.

"Say it." He spat, his knuckles cracking your cheek as you spewed nonsense. 

"Yes, I'm just your play thing." You whimpered, neglecting the notion that your words were self-degrading, only comprehending the thrill of submitting to him. 

He remained wordless for a long time after that, the only sounds flooding the room were your whines and moans and his breathy groans as your body rocked with his thrusts, tits bouncing and slapping together beneath the fabric of your dress. 

His hand abandoned your throat and slithered down your torso, caressing your mound before he found your clit, using his calloused thumb to rub delicious circles into you. Your climax was already teetering closer to the edge, and now you were dangling over the cliff of euphoria. The simplest touch would send you over the edge. 

His other palm pressed into your lower belly, he groaned prudently when he could feel his shaft pounding into your stomach. He slowed his circles into your clit and you yelped, "Don't. Cum." He growled, your legs trembling as he edged you on and forbade your climax. 

"Please!" You moaned flagrantly, bucking your hips to meet his forceful thrusts and clenching around his cock. He hissed in pleasure, pounding into you even harder.

"Only if you agree," he breathed, "That you will accept both of my offers." He harbored his hitching breath in his chest, puffing out his cheeks and pursing his lips as he exhaled with a guttural grunt and pulsed inside of you, "Be my— fuck, spy on the resistance, and be my personal little helper." 

Without a sliver of a doubt, you nodded, "Fuck! Please, let me cum, I-I agree." You sputtered, tears brimming your eyelids from the torment inflicting denial upon your core. 

"Then fucking do it, tesoro. Cum on my cock." He barked as he neared his own climax, your vision was an endless void of white, peppered with twinkling stars as you released a primal, lewd moan, head craning backwards and your legs quivering as you convulsed and came around his cock. 

He released a deep, wanton sigh, pumping his hot seed deep within your core, plunging it into you with his animalistic thrusts. He continued to pound into you, riding you through the aftershocks of your painfully-pleasurable orgasm.

He eases out of you leisurely, a string of creamy cum latching the head of his cock to your spent, raw pussy.

His sappy seed and your juices gushed from your core, coating your thighs in slick ribbons. He swiped it off of your thighs with his digits, sinking his pointer and middle finger into your swollen mouth. The salty mixture of your cum clashed with your tastebuds. You moaned softly, sealing your lips around his knuckles, blinking at him through hooded, fatigued eyes. 

"Good girl. You aren't going to regret this." 

What if you already did?


	9. Shut up & Drive

The morning smothered the night seamlessly. The skies mass sustained a daunting navy, even as the birds started to emerge from their nests, chirping benign song. Everything was still dark; even with the whir of traffic and the robust bustle of the city.

"You look like shit." Nora's words rung blatantly, her pale, crystalline eyes flickering over your frame, nose sniveling. She chuckles when you grumble snark back at her.

You flash her a piercing look of contempt. Her laughter fades to be a lingering sniffle. Eyebrows furrowing in concern. "But seriously... are you sure everything's okay?" She asks, inhaling a steady heap of smoke through her slender, short cigarette.

The smoke billows through the crisp morning air, a tinge of mildew and forenoon chill surfacing around New York's bustling, black, pollution-oxidized atmosphere.

The blare of sirens ricocheted off of the view from Nora's nimble little balcony— the scalloped slab of stone, or the walls of the neighboring complex, that were condensed and compact with hers.

Although you were prohibited from shedding any of the... dangerous intel you have obtained over the course of the Kylo Ren assignment— there was something oddly liberating about confiding in an oblivious, charitable character like herself.

According to the lies you've smothered her with in order to keep your lethal reputation under wraps, you were a sustainable saleswoman, endeavored with a wealthy, organic beauty agency. You could spoon feed her complete and utter bullshit, and she would still garble it up incredulously.

Lying to your best-friend was not optimal, or correct, in the slightest. But it was a sacrifice you willfully committed to in order to keep her, and yourself, safe.

"It's just been a rough couple weeks," you admit, musing the words dully through a sigh, smiling sadly.

"I get it. Truly, I do." Nora chirps in agreement, nodding, surveying the darkness that looms like shadows in every cranny of your surroundings.

If only she truly did understand.

You scoff, smashing the bud of your cigarette into the ashtray that was balanced on the ledge of her balcony. You chuck it off of the ledge, discarding it with little to no regards for the environment— the damage upon the earth was already so collateral.

From the interior of her apartment, that was accessible through the ajar balcony doors, your phone dings boisterously.

You scramble to respond, as you had been expecting a check-in by Poe ever since the belligerent events that had unfolded just hours before.

You scoop your phone off of the faux-leather ottoman situated in the corner of Nora's bohemian-esque living room.

Your eyebrows knit together in bewilderment, when your eyes rake over a message conveyed by an unknown number, illuminating your homescreen with its bland words.

No Caller ID

Come outside. Five minutes.

-K.R.

Unease gyrates in your core, your pulse skyrocketing with a conjunction of dread and... excitement? Dare you say his persona was wearing on you in all the wrong ways...

You gulp down the painful lump of befuddlement bobbing in your throat, twiddling your thumbs as your mind exercised a response to churn back.

Another ping of your phone indicates that another message had been delivered.

No Caller ID

I'm not waiting.

You spring up from the couch, smoothing out the plaid, fringe skirt you were clad in, harboring your breath in your lungs as you flip through the contents of your brain like a book. Trying to seek out your own self worth, that was deteriorating fiber by fiber in the wake of Kylo Ren.

"Hey... Nor?" You call dubiously.

She braces the doorframe with her hands as she pokes her head in from the balcony and acknowledges you inquisitively.

"I gotta run. Thanks for letting me stop by," you mutter with a grateful smile, as you trudge towards the door in your scuffed-up Doc's.

"Of course." She grins. "Be careful!"

***

The polished scarlet of Ren's Lamborghini gleamed like ripe cherries under the cities artificial glow. The freshly-waxed vehicle rumbles lowly, a nimble growl.

You jerk the door open to come face to face with your opposer. "May I help you?" You remark, poking your head into the Lambo, that reeks of leather, musk, and Marlboro's.

His plump, rouge lips quirk into a prudent smirk, his ravenous eyes gleaming wickedly as he drinks you in from head to toe. "Get in, doll." He orders huskily. Averting his gaze, forearm dangling over the curve of the steering wheel, his forefinger and thumb kneading together.

The diamonds peppering the Rolex cladding his wrist twinkle with contempt, as you take his offer into consideration. Aimlessly admiring his descollage in the process. He was garbed in a leather-jacket that accentuated every flex of muscle upon his bulky arms, a pair of Levi's cladding his long legs.

"I said, get in." He grits hoarsely, spearing you with a look of warning.

You sigh, complying to his forceful demands, slithering into the passengers seat. He bolts off down the street before you can even consider acclimating the seatbelt, the engines roar reverberating around the street.

There was silence, thicker than unripe honey. His demeanor was neutralized, content, except for the infamous straining of his jaw. Like he was calm. Apprehension was coiling in your gut nevertheless. 

His hand gradually glides across the console, resting on your thigh. The calloused pad of his palm strokes your thigh, your eyes darting to his veiny hand. His long fingers were tenderly kneading the plump flesh. His pinky brushes the hem of your skirt, and he glances darkly at you. 

"Mm.. you look so pretty." He flatters, the seductive twain to his words coiling around his tongue, as heat flushes your cheeks pink at his compliment.

"Thanks," you beam meekly with a breathy chuckle, pausing to see him eyeing you.

He continued to caress your thigh as he huffed, a smirk lingering on his lips. The faint outline of his dimples were prominent on his cheeks. Your heart flutters as you attentively observe him.

You charily lower your hand on top of his, flinching when the muscles in his fingers twitch beneath yours. A part of you expected him to jerk his hand away. You sheepishly start to remove your hand, only for him to loosely interlock his pinky with yours. Although his hand was still tense, his silent reassurance was pacifying. 

"There's this special nightclub I want to bring you to." He glanced at you, deliberately slipping his hand higher, slithering underneath your palm. He averted his concentration to the road, tapping the leather curve of the wheel with the pads of his fingers.

"This early in the morning?" You retort, huffing. A grin was taking shelter on your lips, even as you chewed them to suppress it. 

He hums dully, tenderly smoothing his hand over your thigh. You heedfully take it a step further, curling your index finger around his own.

The Lambo soared through the streets briskly, speeding through the city. Your eyes flicker over the abundance of towering, upscale skyscrapers, coruscating lights emitting from each tower, as the night life lingers even as the sun prepares to make its rise in just about an hour.

"Let's play a game..." his voice rings dauntingly, lowly, as he gives your thigh a tender squeeze. Grinning diabolically at you.

The enigma in his tone makes your heart flutter with... exhilaration. His ravenous, dangerous gaze bores through yours.

Slowly, a smirk starts to pull at your own lips, yours eyes twinkling with mischief.

A low, deranged, manic chuckle escapes his throat, as he chuckles sinisterly, forcefully shifting gears, revving the engine.

This sends the car into a rapid whir, boisterously ascending down the clogged streets, swerving swiftly around different cars. You gasp, as a line of robust honks pierce in your direction, earning them a snarled snicker from Kylo.

"Holy shit!" You rasp, as he forcefully veers the car into every different lane, nearly crashing into all of the opposing vehicles that slam their brakes and swerve to avoid his uncyncial driving.

A red-light was coming up.

Your breath hitches, when his foot propels the gas infeasibly harder, the engine roaring exuberantly, his teeth gritting, as he floors it through the red light— the incoming traffic comes to a belligerent halt, tires skidding, vehicles colliding.

"Woo, fuck yes!" Kylo chants through a warped chain of manic chuckles, grinning widely, as he shifts in his seat and straightens his posture, observing the damage he had inflicted through the rear-view mirror.

Your heart throbs perniciously in your throat, in a conjunction of adrenaline and fear. Your veins ran hot with exhilaration, and a pit burrowed in your stomach, as you frantically swiveled in the seat to face the rubble of the wreck. You chuckle breathily in disbelief.

"We're not done yet, baby.." he muses, the tires screeching upon the tarmac as he does nearly a full 360°, sending you plummeting into the door with a stunned squeak.

"You know you can get us killed..." you laugh at your comment, shaking your head, eyebrows furrowed as you clasp onto his forearm for dear life.

"That's the point of the game." He says.

Your eyes widen, pulse skyrocketing, as he flies threw another cluster of ongoing traffic, the loud belch of a car horn ringing in the distance.

"Kylo!" You squeal, giggling, one hand bracing the ceiling for support, as you start to glide around in your seat.

He starts to moderately decelerate, the car rolling to a stop just before a colossal, luxurious building. The skyscraper radiated opulence, as suit-clad men with briefcases and thousand-dollar wardrobes sauntered out of the revolving doors.

"W-where are we?" You ask, breaths labored, as you struggle to descend from your high.

"I need to take care of some business," he says, tone eerily tranquil, and mundane. "Stay in the car. I'll be quick."

With that, he emerged from the car, feathering a hand through his raven locks. His stride was powerful and earnest as he struts towards the entrance, flashing you a bland look before disappearing through the revolving doors.

***

He was gone for hours. You were starting to worry. At first, you were content just nestling into the car, blaring music as you recollected yourself. But after awhile... things started to feel off-putting and unnerving.

The windows were rolled down just enough to allow you fresh air. The crisp, now evening breeze tickling your cheeks. Your eyes— which had been squinted as you poured your heart into every word of a song— snapped open. Kylo slipped into the drivers seat, instantly adjusting the knob on the stereo, turning it nearly all the way down. 

"You're going to go fucking deaf." He snapped, glaring at you pointedly. You stifled a laugh, completely unfazed by his snark. "We can go now."

"Finally." You grumble. His hand slithers across the console to pat your thigh, massaging the skin subconsciously, as he starts to drive normally away from the building.

With the dim, yellow tinged streetlights cascading down, the gentle breeze swaying with your locks as the windows were half breached and music faintly chimed in the background; the entire moment felt surreal. A cunning man stroking your thigh, the scent of cigarettes and his cologne wafting into your face. It was... relaxing.

When you entered the nightclub, sanguine tunes were blaring in your sensitive eardrums, the exhilarating music ambient to the crowd of intoxicated dancers. Kylo was guiding you through the mob of young, ardent partiers, his arm eloped firmly with yours. Your expression was orthodox to his, virtuous and unreadable. 

"The others are here somewhere." He mumbled almost to himself, eyes darting around the club briskly. 

The others, as in those animalistic, scorned excuses of men that he considered his associates. Cardo and Ap'lek were already on your personal hit list for when this commute with Kylo Ren was done and far behind you. It was only a matter of time before the other four were, as well.

Matching his strapping marches, you internally grimaced when you approached the familiar men that roared boisterously with laughter and reeked of Tequila and Whiskey. Cardo caught glimpse of you both hurdling towards them and cocked a brow, chugging the remainder of his drink. 

"Get her a Martini." Kylo snapped his fingers demandingly, lightly shoving you towards the table of beasts. "Now." He commanded firmly when everybody just shifted in response to his orders. Vicrul scrambled up from the corner of the booth, darting towards the bar. 

Even though you preferred ordering for yourself, a Martini would suffice. They were always your go to regardless. 

"I'll be back." Kylo averted his attentive focus to you, "Stay with them." His long fingers brushed your wrist as he strolled past you without further explanation. You blinked, watching as he disappeared through the crowd.

When you swiveled to face the booth, all of them were staring at you. You gulped, smoothing out your skirt, squeezing yourself into the seat. 

"What are we playing?" You confronted them assertively, grinning cheekily at all of them.

They exchanged amused looks, before Ap'lek, whom was perched directly across from you, cleared his throat thickly. "Poker." He shuffled his stack of cards unethically, his eyes narrowed and challenging. 

Vicrul appeared by your side, nudging you over and sliding your Martini towards you, spreading the slimy mildew in a sticky path behind it. 

"Count me in."

You adapted to their modified version of poker instinctively, all of the years you spent gambling in Las Vegas were finally proving useful and displaying your skills to all of the flamboyant, drunk men. 

After you won a ginormous pile of crinkled cash that all of the men reluctantly contributed to— Vicrul brushed your hair over your shoulder and whispered a question hotly in your ear and you nodded, blinking slowly as you processed the alcohol you've downed by the glass. 

Vicrul was the first to do a line of coke, pinching the side of his nostril and inhaling it sharply, swiping his nose along the tables surface. He wiggled his nose and chanted ecstatically, all of the other boys hyping him up and patting his back forcefully. 

Then went Ap'lek, Trudgen, and Ushar. 

Your body was damp with a sheen layer of sweat, back pressed into the cold, glossy surface of the table as you hiked up your sweater, revealing the entirety of your torso. You already snorted your line, you couldn't recall if it was only three minutes ago or an hour before. 

Cardo was kneading your hipbone with his palm, leisurely raking his nose across your stomach and snorting a line off of your skin and you squirmed, eyes fluttering shut as spurts of colors vibrantly flickered behind your eyelids. 

They all laughed thunderously as he brushed the residue off of your body.

"What did you give her?" Kylo's monotone voice asked in a hushed tone and you jolted, blinking at him drearily.

"I'm fine," you breathed, lifting your heavy limbs from the table and folding at the waist. You lost balance and collapsed forwards, face crashing into a toned chest. A hand clasped the back of your scalp, feathering through your hair gently and steadily holding your face into his chest. 

Kylo breathed your name deliberately, slowly pealing your face away from his chest by your hair and patting your cheek vigorously to help you regain your consciousness. "Come on." He ordered dully, stabilizing you with an arm curled around your waist. 

With an easy nod in compliance, you hummed to yourself and took deep, tranquil breaths. You creased your boots with each sluggish trudge of your feet, feeling queasy and thrilled all at once from the mixture of alcohol and cocaine. 

***

"I like this song." He mumbled lowly, slightly bobbing his head to a song by Lana Del Rey you had chosen to play, lighting his cigarette as it hung loosely from the corner of his lips. 

After taking a lengthy drag, he passed the cigarette to you, pinching it between his fingers and holding it to your lips. You angled your head peculiarly to seal your lips around it, sucking in a quipped drawl and wiggling your eyebrows at him. 

You giggled at yourself, coughing and sending jagged puffs of smoke out of your nostrils. The windows were rolled all the way down, allowing the chilly, midnight air to soothe your boiling skin. His calloused palm was resting on your thigh, gliding up and down, fiddling with the hem of your skirt as you sung the song Brooklyn Baby and passed his cigarette back and forth. 

With the alleviating hold of his hand plastered to your back, you steadily made it to the golden archways of a hotel, of sorts.

He acquired two keycards from the receptionist, motioning by your side patiently, walking you to the elevator.

The rows of embellished thresholds zipped by in blurry spurts when you emerged from the elevator. Kylo shoved the keycard into the keypad of one of the doors, twisting the handle charily and pushing you inside, following behind. He sealed the door shut as you flopped backwards into the provided bed with an exasperated sigh, limbs sprawled out, your hair tousled and matting to your blotchy, damp face. 

He hovered near the door for a moment, before he sighed in exasperation and clasped the door handle. "I will take you back to your friends place tomorrow." He said. 

You protested with a whine and the vigorous shake of your head, as you massaged your thumping temples, eyes squeezing together.

"Come sit." You slapped the crisp sheets, patting them expectantly. He hesitated, pondering to the point it became tactile and you groaned, swiftly sitting up and slamming your palm into the bed again. "Please?" 

His eyes were trained on yours, his plumps lips twitched into a frown and he obliged your requests with an unintelligible grumble to himself. He shrugged off his leather jacket, crumbling it up into a ball and slamming it onto the floor, audaciously colliding into the sheets next to you. 

The entire bed squeaked and rocked with his sudden movement, the mattress dipping copiously. His black, coiled locks were fanning out around his face as he burned holes into the white speckled ceiling, merely blinking. You subconsciously lowered yourself back down on your side, facing him with an attentive stare. 

And for a moment, his serenity offered you peacefulness, and you thought that if the circumstances were exceptional and he hadn't been a cruel, malicious manipulator; this fraudulence you were committing with him wouldn't have felt so... bad.

Absentmindedly, you outstretched your palm and stroked a thick, wavy strand of his hair with your fingertip. He flinched at the touch, his lips parting with his hitched breath as he dubiously tilted his head to face you. His jaw clenched, expression grave and solemn. His dark eyes were raking over yours, a black puddle of fading desire. 

He leaned in swiftly as if he would regret his decisions, his lips fervently pressing into yours. With a surprised moan into his mouth, you met the passionate intensity of his slow, wet kisses. His nose poked your cheek when he tilted his head and leisurely detached his lips from yours, creating a sticky smack. 

Both of you took a moment to collect your breaths, avoiding glancing in one another's direction as your hand lingered on his jaw.

You gulped and wearily removed your hand, tucking it beneath your cheek and squirming in your comfortable position. Your eyelids were heavy with extortion, fluttering shut. After a few minutes of silence and the verge of slumber approaching, the mattress shifted and Kylo grunted. Your eyes flickered back open, vision hazy with a thick layer of fatigue. 

He was towering over the bed frame, feathering his fingers through his hair apprehensively. His muscular back was flexing through the restricting material of his black t-shirt as he bent at the waist to collect his jacket. 

He glimpsed you from over his shoulder as he tugged it back on in one precise movement, upper lip curling as he sighed. "Go to sleep." He demanded under his breath, voice vacant of warmth.

He loitered by the door, adjusting the collar of his jacket and staring at you with his jaw slack and eyebrows raised exigently. "And don't ever fucking act like such a mindless little girl again." He growled accusingly, swinging the door open with a rigid huff. "You are smarter than this." 

And at that, he was gone.


	10. His Burden

Kylo Ren was never the type to be considered amiable. His title-- which inconveniently wavered between an immoral lord of arson and crime, and the compassionate son of Leia Organa-- perceived him. There were scarce moments in his complex, fucked up life, where he could disregard his imperative commissions and just exist. 

Except Kylo Ren was not keen on the idea of merely existing, anyways. He had morals; cruel, non-expendable ones, that required him to be the vigilant man that he was-- and has been, ever since the accident. The accident that sent trickles of despair in every feasible direction. 

The devastating tragedy. The catastrophe that morphed him into the uncivilized, ominous, fuming beast that he was tonight; and every other night for the past seven years that he had spent in a freighting solitude. 

Was it truly devastating, though? Or was the assassination of his materialistic father the simplest way out of his excursions? Was it ever as traumatizing as he scribbled it out to be? 

He had no idea. And he certainly did not have the time nor interest in resurfacing those feelings, those inquisitive questions that remained unsolved. He preferred bombarding himself with lethal tasks that distracted him from the melancholy of it all. 

Pristine, twinkling snowflakes combined with the glacial mildew of the night breeze. His raven locks tickled his brooding nose and he grimaced, pawing it away gruffly and shoving his cigarette back into his mouth. 

If his heart would've been pumping with anything other than vexation and the incurable craving for vengeance-- he could've glimpsed his serene surroundings from the hotels secluded balcony and thought that it was ravishing. 

Instead, he loathed the tranquil scenery. He was revolted, appalled. If a fatal scene unfolded in that approximate moment, a blood bath or even a brawl, that would be enough for his apprehension to fade into the minuscule fragments of it that always lingered. 

His thoughts meandered to you. You. He despised you, with every figment of his fractured bones and every fiber of his heavy limbs. Turmoil had been a frequent, conflicting feeling for him ever since you pried your way into his hustling life. 

She's just a burden, he snarled to himself. 

And he reminded himself of this, a copious amount of times. An unnecessary amount of times, for a consequential man that suppressed the idea of liking you for the sake of his apathetic reputation. 

Half of his repetitive statement was accurate, the other half was a depiction of fiction. The whole ordeal between the two of you was meant to be limited to professional. And he was the one that crossed the hazardous line separating friend from foe. Him. 

And he thought he loathed that, just like he hated the rest of his malevolent mistakes that resulted in his hasty suggestion of recruiting you; an enemy. That was what you were meant to be. A ruthless rival that should have been obliterated weeks ago. On that trivial, Saturday night at his favorite nightclub. 

But when he saw your angelic face contrasting with your devilish, wicked body, the ploy he had been arranging for months in preparation to annihilate you had become volatile, evaporating into his mesmerized mind. 

Hesitation and mercy were two, undistinguished words to Kylo Ren. Guilt and remorse, were not included in his cunning forte. And then you waltzed into that club with a frivolous ruse, retorting your tactics to yourself internally. 

And you fucked up all of his plans.

The discernible, risky possibility of word being spread to Snoke was inevitable. With his scoundrels of associates, and the resistance breathing down his neck, swarming his intentions like pesky vultures-- word could travel fast. 

And fast was not particularly one of his stronger suits. His work ethic was deliberate and thorough, precise. When his business was rushed and unplanned, that was when havoc would corrupt his schemes. 

If Snoke discovered that you had been recruited, and that Kylo Ren had been exchanging valuable information with you-- even though your loyalties were rooted to the resistance, blossoming into defiance-- being victim of his brash behavior would be the last thing you ever did.

Snoke would not leave you unscathed, or mobile. If you survived to spare another agonizing moment from the insufferable torment he would skew upon you, you would wish that you were dead instead. 

That was the enthrallment of it all. Kylo Ren was a narcissist, a borderline sociopath. How could someone as flamboyant and egotistical, cruel and dangerous-- fret over the death of an insolent girl? 

He wouldn't. Couldn't. You were just another blockade, an obstacle, that he was maneuvering through at a steady pace; taking his pliant, lustrous time to escape from. If a bullet were to pierce your skull at this very shrewd moment, he would be relieved. It was the easiest way for him to move on from his captivation with your submission--

He thought his merciless thoughts were valid. Until a hefty, thunderous heap of pops ricocheted from the interior of the hotel. 

His feet, that had been planted to the grimy cement only a millisecond ago, were scuffling along the synthetic carpet beneath the soles of his Boutons. 

Pop. 

With a hoarse grunt, he bursted through the corridor leading to the lengthy hallway separating him from you. His leather shoes squelched as he zipped through the mosaic tiles with apprehension in each feverish stomp.

Pop. 

His pulse quickened, drumming persistently in the lump in his throat. His scrambling feet only increased their voluptuous speed, pounding into the tiles-- wantonly making his location perceptable-- and that was not even a concern of his. 

All he could fathom was you-- a distinct image of you lifeless and fatally wounded in a sappy, crimson puddle of blood. 

His strides subconsciously morphed into a run. His arms pumped at his sides, his chest heaved. He could not let death be your fate. He could not let somebody die under his devious spell-- not again.

\---

A boisterous pop roused you from your quaint, profound slumber. The abrupt, strident sound failed to irk you-- until your morality was refurbished-- and the heavy weight of your extorted eyelashes was restored with an immense wave of alertness; a primal distress.

Your eyelashes fluttered open, a heavy perturbation weighing your gut down as you prolonged your curled, fetal position. Breaths weary pants, eyes wide and searing holes through the dainty drapes sheathing your view of the window. 

You squirmed, stretching your stiff limbs, sinking deeper into the mattress and nuzzling into the crisp white sheet swathing your body. The blaring, maddening sound must've just been a figment of your imagination; a hallucination, caused by the fragility of your sobering mind. 

Sleep was teetering towards you with sly mechanisms, the frenetics of your thoughts being replaced with fatigue and drowsiness. When another pop emitted from an indecipherable location-- and this time, the pop was nearer. Louder.

You staggered up from the alluring mattress, thrashing the sheet off of your frame. Glimpsing the hotel room, breaking it down brick by brick, pillar by pillar to decrypt the perpetrator of the gunshots.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

You stifled a scream, diving to the floor, shielding your pounding head. Malicious shouts and curses mingled with the persistent pops of gunshots, reverberating around your lavish hotel room as they emitted from the opposite side of your locked door.

You cradled your knees to your chest tautly, swaying back and forth with apprehension, chewing your bottom lip to suppress a sob. Unfortunately for you; you were currently unarmed. You would have no source of protection if everything went haywire.

And it did. 

Chaos snatched your relief and molded it into turmoil as the door rattled rapturously. You slapped a palm over your quivering lips to muffle your whimpers. "Open the door!"'A shrewd, croaky masculine voice commanded. 

When you failed to comply to the mystery mans orders, the thick silence was followed by perturbing, thunderous pounding. Thud. Thud. Thud. With one final belligerent pummel, the hinges groaned and snapped-- the deranged corridor soared, slamming into the floor. 

You shimmied under the shallow bed frame to the best of your abilities, limbs curled and twisted. Heavy strides bustled through the room, the floorboards creaked clamorously. A pair of charcoal gray, leather boots stomped past the bed with brisk steps that sent tremors of horror through your veins. 

"Fuck!" The voice shrieked, a guttural growl of defeat. Static ricocheted around the bedroom and drowned out your chipped, labored breaths. "We lost her!" The man cursed, aiming his pistol at the wall. He pinched the trigger, shooting a gaping, crumbling hole in the wall.

And you screamed instinctively.

The pair of feet swiveled in your direction, taking methodical steps towards you. Adrenaline and primal fear pumped through your veins as you accepted your agonizing fate; this was death. The fiery pits of hell, and it's colossal, sinister gates were greeting you with a devilish grin. 

The boots hovered a millimeter away from the bed frame, swaying as the man deliberately tiptoed towards you. He clicked his tongue, his knees cracking as he leisurely sunk to the floor. 

A black, dismantled ski mask encompassed the face of your intruder. The fabric twitched upwards as he seemingly smirked, his gloved palm flew out to snatch your ankle. 

You thrashed your limbs arduously, vigorously screaming and sobbing as a primitive yelp escaped your lips. He yanked you from beneath the bed in one swift, scoured movement, mercilessly pining your spasming body together. 

"There you are." He was endeavored, grunting and sputtering as he struggled to contain your hasty thrashing. After you squirmed, pounding into his chest with your futile, clenched fists-- he resulted in mimicking your actions. His opposite fist cracked into your jaw and you wailed, a set of brass knuckles adorning his fingers. 

The bone in your jaw fractured with a gnarly crunch, breath hitching as you sobbed from the excruciating pain. The metallic taste of blood accumulated on your tongue, you gathered a wad of spit and sent it straight into the mans concealed face. 

He recoiled, staggering backwards, as the crimson liquid seeped into his eye socket. You scrambled off of the floor, only for him to regain his stability and circle your ankle. He sent you plummeting back into the floor, your already broken jaw slamming into the tile with a nauseating crack. 

"Please... please." You pleaded croakily, voice wavering between vulnerable and feverish, to accepting. If this was the way you would perish; in the same essence as your parents, then you would accept it graciously with altitude. 

The man relented obeying your petrified whines and pleads, straddling your back. The glacial tip of his pistol sought refuge in the crevice between the nape of your neck and your scalp. He shifted, pinning you down with his bombarding weight, digging the head of the gun deeper into your skin. 

"Gotcha." He mused, cocking back the safety seal. The minuscule click sent a prickling line of goosebumps along the expanse of your skin. 

"Please... don't do this..." You blubbered through a quaking, heaving breath. Tears blurred your vision and streamed down your rouge cheeks, washing away the humiliation and grief that loitered there. 

He sighed heavily. "Do you think this is what I wanted to do to begin with?" The man chuckled mundanely, his hands were clammy, the pistol in his hand trembling profusely. "You could've opened the box." He growled accusingly. "It would've made my job so much easier." 

The box. The inquisitive, suspicious box that appeared at the foot of your door four nights ago. The box that elicited an enigmatic, terrorized reaction from Poe. The box that you presumed to be delivered by Kylo Ren himself, as an immoral tactic to obliterate you. 

Only to find that he was just as oblivious, when a roar of rage erupted from the threshold. Craning your neck in an inhuman position, your gut wrenched at the sight before you; contrasting with the gratitude that washed over your frail frame. 

Kylo Ren-- with a heaving chest. Tousled, sweat soaked locks that matted around his damp, glistening face. His expression was stoic, consequential, clashing with his perceptible apprehension. His left shoulder, broad and hunched, was pierced. A sappy, crimson hole replacing the fabric of his blazer. 

His face contorted with a fragment of remorse, guilt spilling through the cracks of his fearless facade; as he watched you writhe helplessly beneath the now frozen, baffled man. 

Before havoc disrupted the serene stillness, like a war of chaos and abolishment sweeping through the quaint plains of a peaceful village. 

Pop. 

You tensed and jolted at the deafening sound, eyes flickering shut. The unknown was taunting you with its bitter, spiteful pulse. Was it Kylo, or the merciless man with his vengeful weapon to your head that had been bloodied and dismantled by that shot? 

The substantial weight applying pressure on your back evaporated into emptiness. Grunts, sputters and furious stomps filled your pounding, spiraling notion. 

After mustering up the courage and devotion to survive this catastrophic predicament, you wiggled and rolled onto your back, scurrying to face the scene unfolding in front of you. 

The man was groaning and clutching his limp hip, limbs heavy with fatigue as his clenched fist came into contact with Kylo's jaw. His neck snapped, a ribbon of blood and saliva shooting out of his mouth in a wad of spurts. His nostrils flared in fury, blood slithered down his swollen lips as he brought the hilt of the gun into the mans temple.

He howled, crumbling to the floor, cradling his wounded head. Kylo hovered over him, reeking of vexation, quipped breaths slipping past his tainted lips before his arm swung back vigorously and he bashed his face in with the hilt repeatedly. Blood splattered around the room, beading in droplets along your face as you grimaced and scurried backwards.

The man clambered at his side for his gun, even as his face was victim to Kylo's ruthless wrath. His features were dismantled with raw, cracked skin, painted in crimson and burgundy. Kylo made subtle eye contact with you, his head nodding a millimeters width. 

You nodded back, huffing with a sinister grin and scrambling towards the gun, outstretching your fingertips and fumbling for the tip of the pistol. The man found it first, his fingers limply curled around the hilt and without a moments hesitation; he pulled the trigger.

The bullet whistled, soaring through the air-- a blood curdling scream shimmied past your taut lips as the bullet pierced the skin of your left thigh. The skin was scorching with an unfathomable agony, raw and disgruntled. Your vision was foggy and disoriented as a choked sob elicited from your hoarse throat, fingertips tracing the fresh wound. The bullet was burrowing into your skin, leaving you crippled and helpless.

Kylo was watching you, the emotion in his black irises was indescribable; although the furrow in his eyebrows was prominent. His distraction with your fatal condition offered the other man the upper hand. He aimed the gun towards Kylo's face and you screamed, babbling nonsense and waving your trembling finger in his direction feverishly.

He averted his concentration back to the man just before he pulled the trigger. He cupped the tip of the gun, arduously twisting it out of his grip and slamming it to the floor, hissing through gritted teeth. 

Copious amounts of blood dribbled down your leg, staining your calves and Nora's boots. You applied pressure to the skin surrounding your crippling wound, wincing as the blood gushed out in sickening spurts, coating the tile flooring. 

When you glanced back up at the brawl taking shelter in the center of the room, Kylo had the man at his mercy. The point of his gun was drilling through his forehead. The man spewed pathetic apologies, fingers weaved together and clasped in front of his chest. 

"You fucking sick bastard." Kylo snarled, looping his fingers into the hole penetrating the mans ski mask. When he ripped it from his head, the face behind the mask provoked the nausea to swirl around your gut. 

Finn. 

"I'm so sorry." He muttered towards you, shaking his head vigorously, tears staining his bloody cheeks. 

All you could do was blink in astonishment and concentrate on your scathing injury. Thankfully for you, Kylo ended the misery without an ounce of query or pity. He sent the bullet hurdling through his skull with a huff. 

Finns body collapsed into the floor with a dull thud, crimson peppering the once spotless wallpapered walls. 

Kylo wasted no more than a millisecond before he scrambled towards you with fervent steps, dropping to his knees sloppily and pawing your hand away, replacing it with his. He applied pressure to the wound and you whined, seizing his wrist and attempting to nudge him away. 

"Fuck!" He cursed, sending spurts of his bloody spit into your already drenched face, springing up from the floor. He aggressively snarled, swiping an antique vase off of its designated spot on a dresser.

The glass shattered, fragments of the rigid shards soaring through the air and coating the floor. He propped his hands on his hips, the tendons in his back muscles flexing as he grumbled curses under his breath and pivoted to face the wall.

Your bulging gaze was captivated by Finn's lifeless body. Your bottom lip was quivering and tears stained your cheeks as you sobbed softly, smearing your blood on your face as you cried into your palms. Betrayal. 

Betrayal. Liability. Trust. 

All three steel factors of the relationship you had built with your peers and coworkers was wavering, if not already crumbled. Even your trust in Poe was teetering over the edge of rationality. Him and Finn had countless conversations, disregarding you, keeping you hidden in the ravenous dark on the details of your ploys. What if they had been planning this together?

Another chain of sobs racked your body. The nerves, the muscles, your organs-- were all releasing stimuli through your veins and leaving you dejected. Numbed. 

Kylo swiveled to face you tediously, avoiding eye contact. His jaw was clenched, teeth barred, as he steadied his labored breaths and creeped towards you charily. 

"Shit." He muttered, feathering both hands through his damp hair apprehensively. He shrugged off his blazer briskly, wringing out the shriveled, stained material and dropping to his knees in front of you again. 

His veiny hands were blotched with drying blood as he circled your wrists gingerly, lowering your hands to your lap. His gaze-- honey speckled, pacifying, and worried-- darted between yours attentively. 

"Just breathe." His tone was gravelly and demanding, albeit soft and tender. You nodded, hiccuping and producing more tears of anguish. 

He pushed up the sleeves of his white, cashmere button up; which had morphed into a transparent beige, latching onto his skin with profuse sweat. Two full, enthralling sleeves of tattoos coated his bulky arms. The prominence of his abs and broad pecks were seeping through his shirt, stained with blood as it dribbled down his chin. Half of the buttons were undone, revealing the sweat accumulating on his clavicle. 

"Breathe." He repeated through gritted teeth, softening his earnest facial expression as he hoisted your injured thigh up, cradling it in his hands and examining the wound. You seethed, chewing on your bottom lip, eyebrows crinkling together from the torment. 

"I have to get the bullet out..." He pursed his lips, meeting your gaze solemnly. 

You nodded, eyelashes heavy and fluttering with extortion as consciousness leisurely slipped away from you. 

He caressed your cheek, thumb grazing your cheekbone vigorously. "No, no. Keep your eyes open." He demanded softly, cupping your cheek and patting it roughly to aid you in gaining an ounce of consciousness back. "Keep them on me, sweetheart." 

His hands were lapped with crimson, clammy and tracing the gash in your thigh. At this point, the entire raw, fleshy wound was numb. His fingers were protruding the cavernous, seeping hole and you wailed, on the verge of blacking out. 

"Shh." He cooed, eyes flickering between the wound he was rummaging through and your fluttering gaze. "It's almost out, just stay with me. Okay?" He muttered, grimacing as the sappy blood pooled all over the floor, his fingers, and your legs. 

"I thought it was you." You cried accusingly, words slurring together as tears mingled with the blood on your face. "I t-thought you were m-my enemy." You jabbed your finger into his chest, seething through barred teeth, head lolling to rest on his shoulder. He hissed as you pressed your forehead into his wound, yet he wrapped his free arm around your waist and clutched tighter to his body.

"Now is not the time for this." He mumbled earnestly, sighing pointedly. He clicked his tongue, and you heard a metal clank as he tossed the bloodied bullet to the ground. 

He adjusted your thigh, sprawling your wounded leg across his lap as you remained nuzzling into his shoulder. His arm slipped away from your torso and you limply wrapped your forearms around his neck to stabilize yourself. 

He wrapped his blazer around the gash, tying it into a triple, taut knot with the sleeves. The circulation being quipped by the restraining tie and the amount of blood you lost was eliciting pens and needles to prickle at your feet. 

"Come on." One arm cradled your back, the other looped the backs of your thighs and he hoisted you up in his brawny grip, standing up swiftly. 

His strides were purposeful, hasty and frenetic. He maneuvered through the hallway, staggering over a squadron of lifeless bodies. Dismantled and shriveled in black pools of blood. The hotel staff was bustling through the halls, sobbing and making their anarchic calls to the police. 

Sirens blared in the hazy, polluted distance as the frisky breeze appeased your despair. All you could fathom was the radiant heat of Kylo's sticky chest, and the drumming beating of his skittish heart. 

He slipped you into the passenger seat of his Lamborghini, securely buckling you in. He tethered and fumbled with the laces of your boots, slipping them off and chucking them into the backseat. He cupped the calf of your injured leg, propping your socked foot up on the dashboard. 

He attentively scanned your condition through hooded, bloodshot eyes one last time before slammimg the door shut. He rounded his side, following suit. 

The engine roared to life, growling and humming, the muffler sputtering as the vehicle squelched and zipped away from the crime scene. 

Kylo Ren was frantically observing you through his peripherals atleast every three seconds, failing to concentrate on the dimly illuminated streets. Instead, his priorities had shifted to you and your writhing frame. 

It was at that moment that Kylo realized one inexplicable, vagrant thing. 

Fear was a killer. 

He was fear.


	11. Lethal Lies

Vulnerability blossomed into defiant tulips, loitering around his honey-auburn gaze. He plucked and fiddled with the rigid scab that was coating your raw flesh, avoiding eye contact. He muttered curses to himself, emitting fumes of indignation through his flared nostrils. 

When he scolded you for tensing at his calloused touch, you took deep breaths to tranquilize yourself and disengage from the notion that you were currently oozing blood. 

Cardo, Ap'lek, and another one of his associates named Trudgen, were all perched on titanium benches-- slouched slothfully, nestling into each other, coated in dry patches of blood-- the other men had fled the base upon arrival, due to Kylo's feverish demands.

He had deployed them to search for the instigator of tonight's blood bath. Finn had to have been ordered to partake in his vengeful duties by somebody.

"You keep tensing." Kylo growled under his breath and jabbed your wound aggressively as he shot you a glare. 

The ruthless encounter of his finger elicited a squeak from your throat, "It hurts." You mumbled pointedly, glaring back. 

Claw marks were indented into the steel surface of the counter you were sprawled out on. It was the counter you were fucked on scarcely twenty-four hours ago. You couldn't decipher whether the scratches were from then, or from now. 

"Do you think..." Your soft, fragile voice cracked as you stifled a moan from the pain. 

"Think what?" He asked, glancing at you before averting his concentration back to his unmethodical work. 

You chewed your bottom lip, a sheepish rouge tainting your blood spotted cheeks. "Do you think Poe had anything to do with this?" Your stomach churned at the mere thought. Turmoil bombarded your senses when Kylo inhaled sharply, his broad chest expanding. 

"Dameron?" He cocked a brow, fumbling for a roll of medical tape at his side as you nodded remorsefully. "I don't think so. I know so."

You gulped, blinking away the heat of the hot tears pricking your eyelids. You responded to his prude statement with apprehensive silence. He fiddled with a thick strand of the tape, securing it around the plush layer of gauze concealing your wound. 

The white, sapphire tainted light dangling above your pounding head flickered off as Kylo tapped the switch. His palm flattened on the gauze, smoothing it out gingerly. "How does it feel?" He drawled, attentively observing you.

You shrugged stubbornly, "Fine."

He sighed, applying a significant amount of pressure to study your reaction. He huffed mundanely when you winced and swatted his hand away. He averted his attention to the slumbering boys as they snored, arms crossed limply, heads resting on one another. 

He blinked tediously, before he trudged his way over to them and clapped voluptuously. Two of them jolted awake, staggering from the bench, as Cardo just roused from his nap leisurely with an exhausted yawn. 

"Get out of here," he mumbled, cocking his head towards the corridor. Although his voice was a void, expressionless and hushed, they still spilled out of the room with fervent stomps. 

He pivoted to face you once the rustic hinges squeaked boisterously, the door slamming shut behind them. His strides were meaningful and slow. Once he reached the counter, he secured the bandages on your thigh and scooped you up in his arms heedfully. 

You nuzzled your temple into his peck, limply folding your forearms around his neck. Your body swayed and bounced with his hefty strides. He plowed through the dimly illuminated foyer, stomping through the disorientating hallway. He cradled you to his chest, his grip pacifying. Incomparable to the feverish clutch he had on your body when he rushed you into the building to disinfect your wounds. 

"You are staying here tonight." He stated, chest rumbling against your ear with his throaty words. You mustered a shallow nod, subconsciously latching onto him tighter to refrain from falling.

Slipping through a taut threshold, Kylo meandered you through a narrow hallway before approaching a ravishing bedroom. The drapes concealing the pristine windows were burgundy and velvet. The king sized bed was swathed in a luxurious set of matching duvet covers. Art Deco pillars stabilized the high, intricately architected ceilings. The walls were a virtuous shade of charcoal gray. 

He carried you to the bed, tenderly placing you down on the alluring mattress. The silky sheets consoled your aching limbs, lulled your tingling skin. Kylo hovered over you wordlessly, before his fingers grazed the top button sealing your skirt together. 

Making eye contact, he silently asked for permission to continue, and you responded with an equal amount of silence. 

His fingers fidgeted with the button, his mechanisms laced with precision. He propped one knee up on the bed, the mattress dipped from the abrupt weight. He fumbled with the second button, then the third, and lastly the fourth. 

His hands slithered up your outer thighs, clasping your hips as he aided you in lifting your butt off of the bed. He slipped the skirt off of you, tossing the bloody, soiled fabric onto the floor. His gaze darted to your panties, his throat bobbing as he swallowed and averted his focus to your blouse. 

He bunched up the hem of your sweater, tediously rolling it up your torso. You sluggishly threw your arms up and he smirked, thumbing the loose material of the sleeves and tugging it off of your body. 

A timid blush morphed your cheeks into a bashful shade of rose, eyes dropping to your stomach sheepishly as you laid there half naked-- penetrated by his intrigued, inquisitive stare. His eyes slowly raked over your body, a prominent twinkle kindling in his hazel gaze. His finger ghosted the valley of your breasts and you sucked in a noticeably sharp breath. 

A devious smirk nestled into his lips, eyebrows raising. "Hm. Somebody liked that, didn't she?" He hummed, fingers grazing the padding of your bra where your nipple was. You nodded, breath hitching as he flicked it repeatedly. 

He applied his second knee to the bed, hunched down in the space between your legs. His face hovered a few inches away from your pussy, and your pulse quickened at the mere sight. The bed creaked as he adjusted his position, licking his lips. Maintaining that enthralling, palpable eye contact with you, his forefinger looped the hem of your panties and he leisurely tugged them down your thighs, careful not to graze your wound. 

He circled your ankle gingerly, pulling your panties off and tossing them into the crumbled pile of clothing on the floor. 

His thumbs kneaded your hipbones, his consequential, passionate gaze settled on your cunt. His tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip, face lowering to meet your heat. 

"So wet already," he mused, chuckling sinisterly. His breathy huff stimulated your clit and you mewled, squirming. "My little slut wants this, hm?" He withheld his animalistic gaze with yours as his voice dripped with yearning and desire. 

You nodded blatantly, incapable of forming a cohesive thought other than your craving for him. "Yes, please." 

He scowled in disapproval, spanking your injured thigh. Your jaw dropped in astonishment and you yelped in agony, eyebrows crinkling together. 

"Yes please?" He cocked a brow, snarling.

A trickle of aspiration liquified your pulsating veins, "Please, daddy?" You nibbled on your bottom lip seductively, bulging your puppy dog eyes. 

"Good girl." His nose brushed your clit as he dove in, slowly swiping his warm tongue up your slick folds. "Now shut the fuck up and let me taste you." He growled, sending vibrations through your clit as you stifled a whine and nodded. 

His calloused palm kneaded your unscathed thigh, his warm pants wafting into your pussy. His lips ransacked your cunt by suckling in your juices aggressively. His tongue stroked the sensitive skin surrounding your clit, purposely avoiding the bundle of nerves. His mouth was an exhilarating source of travel, sending you into a dark paradise of pleasure. 

"Oh, fuck." You moaned breathily, jaw slack, chin pointed towards the ceiling when he thrusted his tongue inside your entrance, swirling it around your dripping walls, groaning into your pussy.

This time as punishment for disobeying his demands, he peeled the gauze off of your thigh and his fingers gouged your wound. You wailed as blood sputtered from the gash, coating your thigh. His lips sparkled with saliva, a string of juices connecting his lips to your cunt as he removed his mouth from you.

"I already fucking told you to keep your pretty little mouth shut." He scolded through gritted teeth, piercing the grizzly gash with his fingertips. The wound tingled with a despicable sensation that pooled warmth in your lower belly and aided your arousal. 

You moaned shrewdly and he inhaled sharply before his lips returned to your pussy. His tongue swirled around your entrance and collected your wetness, lapping it up and coating your clit. He suckled with determination and your back arched instinctively, hips bucking into his face as you thrashed your head and choked down your moans. 

His fingers protruded the gash, before his bloody digits trailed up your bare waist, abandoning a slimy ribbon of crimson behind them. He crammed them past your lips and you gagged as his pointer and middle finger invaded your mouth, the coppery blood taste bombarding your tastebuds. You sucked on his fingers, tongue dancing along the crevices of his skin, bobbing your head enthusiastically as your peak rises. 

His tongue abandoned your clit, gliding up your inner thigh, until it reached your wound. He caressed the gash with his tongue, lapping and sucking up the blood, kissing the raw flesh as you moaned gutturally. Your breath hitched, legs spasming and body trembling at the peculiarly delicious sensation. 

After thrusting his tongue into the dismantled bullet hole, he lifted his face to grin at you-- blood trickled down his swollen lips and his chin, his pearly canines tainted crimson as he licked them devilishly. He bowed his head to suck on your clit, nibbling and flicking it with his tongue, massaging your hipbones. 

"I'm going to cum!" Your desperate, pathetic whine was muffled against his fingers. He snickered, and with a few final sucks, your orgasm crashed into you like a plummeting wave. 

You moaned jumbled, unintelligible nonsense, legs shaking and body convulsing as you rocked your pelvis into his face and he slurped up all of your juices as if his life depended on it. 

As you recovered from your climax, he pressed passionate kisses into your thighs, peppering crimson tainted lip stains all along your skin. He added a few swifter ones near the wound just for good measure before he reapplied the gauze and stood up from the bed. 

With his colossal, brawny build, he scooped you up for the second time and you crumbled in his embrace as the pain nipped away at your consciousness. He scurried towards a corridor in the bedroom, breaching it open and revealing an equally as astounding bathroom. 

One bulky arm cradled you to his chest as the other fumbled with the shower levers and faucet. Hot, steaming water trickled from the dazzling faucet, a thunderous pattering sound ricocheted off of the tiled walls as the water collided with the porcelain tub. 

Kylo perched himself on the edge of the jacuzzi tub, placing you securely in his lap. He gently fumbled with the clasps of your bra, undoing them swiftly and discarding it on the floor. Your forehead limply pressed into his cheek as he examined the bloody gauze and discarded it into the garbage. 

Once the tub was brimming with murky, bubbly water that emitted billowing steam, Kylo adjusted the handles and slowly placed you into the serene embrace of the welcoming water. 

The heat instantly swathed you and numbed your barely cohesive senses. You moaned softly, contently, as the warm water cured the stiffness of your limbs. Clouds of crimson painted the translucent water as it gushed from your wound and the accumulated dry patches on your skin. 

Kylo's knees cracked boisterously and he grunted like an old man as he lowered himself to the floor beside you. He propped his forearm up on the edge of the tub, legs spread widely. He dipped his finger into the red pool of blood you were floating aimlessly in, swirling it around, captivated by the sight. 

"Kylo?" You breathed softly, coyly. 

He hummed blandly back in acknowledgment, watching as ribbons of burgundy twirled around his fingertip.

You mimicked his action, chewing your bottom lip and creating ornate patterns with the various shades of red that fogged the torrid water. "What's going to happen now?" 

He harbored his breath in his lungs for a few seconds, sighing in extortion through puckered lips. "It's hard to depict." He muttered nonchalantly and shifted, his stature relaxing. 

He paused for a moment. 

"I'm going to figure out who did this." His gaze drifted from the water, trailing up your soaked body and settling on yours solemnly. "Even though I could take a wild guess."

A small smile of gratitude tugged at your lips, even as tangible somberness flickered dully in your eyes. "I just thought I could trust them, you know?" He nodded in understanding, dropping his gaze. "Poe... is my best friend." 

You sniffled as you felt a fragment of your being crack. The mere thought of his betrayal caused nausea to bubble deep within your gut. 

Kylo sighed. "There's no such thing as friends when this is what you do for a living." He hissed, springing up to his feet, wringing out his wrist and sending tainted water droplets into your face. "It's all just business, betrayal and lies, tesoro." He retorted prudently, trudging over to the sink. 

He rummaged through the cupboard as you just gaped at him in silence with a downcasted frown. He untucked a fresh package of gauze and another roll of medical tape, and he plopped down onto the toilet seat with a dramatic huff. 

You sunk deeper into the water, until the crimson liquid met your trembling jawline. You swayed your arms back and forth, creating mellow ripples in the water that numbed your apprehension. 

You noticed frenetic moving in your peripherals, and you glimpsed Kylo. He had ripped his button-up shirt off, and you could feel drool spilling from your lips at the sight of his bare chest. It was toned and refined, representing intricate sculptings of an ancient artifact. Colorless tattoos blended together on both of his massive, durable arms, peppering his biceps and all the way down to his wrists. 

He was tending to his own wound, feeling the tenderized flesh surrounding the gaping hole. He held the roll of tape between his teeth as he poured a sloppy, excessive amount of rubbing alcohol on it. He grunted a few times, sputtering and cursing under his breath, before he sealed the gauze on the wound with the tape. 

You allowed the gentle, rhythmic flow of the water to alleviate you. Lapping up soap in your palms, you massaged it into your skin and rinsed the suds. Both of you were just minding your own business, silently basking in one another's presence. 

When you completed your short lived cycle of washing and rinsing, you lifted your chin to look at Kylo. His pitiful gaze was already settled on you. His swollen, bruised lips were formed into a pout. Purple, puffy rings circled his eyes. Dried patches of blood matted his oily locks to his sweaty face. He pawed his hair out of his face, exhaling heavily through puffed out cheeks. 

He looked physically and mentally exhausted. The war in his mind inflicted peril in his dulling irises, a fading trickle of chaos. 

He rose from the toilet seat and approached the basin with small, vigilant steps. The pipes groaned and squealed when he turned a handle, allowing the light flow of water to drizzle from the faucet. 

He cupped his hands, collecting a pool of cool water and splashing it into his face. He rubbed it in vigorously, painting his skin an irritated rouge. The cold, glacial water dribbled down his chin, followed by his chest. It burrowed into his skin, outlining the crevices of his muscles. 

You awkwardly hovered in the bloody puddle of water, contemplating just hopping out instead of awaiting his assistance. He idly wiped the water off of his face, running a cotton towel through his hair and freshening up to the best of his abilities, before he swiveled to face you. 

"Are you done?" He asked. 

You hummed, sitting up forcefully. A heavy load of tainted water droplets dripped off of your body, creating tiny ripples in the bathtub. You unclogged the drain and embraced your knees, looking up at him. 

He fumbled with a rack in the corner of the restroom, just adjacent to the sink, and unfolded a towel. He smoothed out the creases, before holding it open and stepping towards you. He draped it over your shoulder, before both of his hands gripped your hips and he leisurely hoisted you up and out of the tub. 

He aquatinted himself with his original spot on the edge of the tub, tugging you into his lap. Water cascaded down your body and coated his pants. He clasped the hem of the towel, gently patting your wound dry as you winced and subconsciously tightened your grip on his bicep. 

The tendons in his muscles flexed underneath your palm and your cheeks heated up when he glanced at you knowingly. The tip of the towel was now coated in blood, damp and soiled. 

He examined the wound through narrowed eyes before sighing defeatedly, adjusting you on his thigh. He secured the gash with another cotton swab. 

His whirlwind of thoughts was palpable, discernible even through the stoic facade he had mastered.

You built up the courage to speak, sucking in a deep breath. "Are... Are you okay?" You asked meekly. 

He nodded stiffly, his coiled locks brushing your cheek and tickling your skin as he kept his head hung low. He remained silent with barred teeth, before he cracked under the pressure of your inquisitive stare and looked at you. There was a gleam, a sparkling flicker of guilt in his golden irises. 

He watched the puzzled expression on your face earnestly. Regret clouded his empathy, his jaw clenching. As if he could discern your enthrallment with his sympathy for you. He charily applied another stripe of medical tape to the wound, before he scooped you up briskly and slipped past the threshold. 

He folded the sheets back, slipping you onto the mattress, sandwiching you between the blankets. "You need some rest." He muttered, adjusting the sheets on top of you as you sunk into the mattress and snuggled into the warm embrace of the blankets. 

"You do too." You whispered back. He shook his head lightly with a minuscule, humorous scoff. His fingers stroked the damp hair out of your face, tucking the tousled strands behind your ear. He loitered there for a few minutes, watching as your eyelashes fluttered shut, before he removed his hand.

He was about to take a step back, when you softly circled his wrist and tugged him towards the bed. "I'm scared." You breathed, peering up at him with earnest through your heavy eyelids.

The splintering gunshots and cracks of skin were bombarding your hearing, a dazed memory of tonight's events. The petrifying thought of being betrayed by your best friend nagged at your drumming heart, sulking it in apprehension. Everything in your life was just plummeting down an inescapable, cavernous hole of lethal lies. 

"Calmati, okay?" He drawls in Italian, accent potent. His finger caresses your wristbone aimlessly. "I will keep watch tonight." He assured deliberately. "And I'm leaving tomorrow. For a few weeks. To sort all of this out with my boss.” He shimmied his wrist out of your gentle restraint, stroking your cheek with his knuckle. 

He paused, you nuzzled your cheek into his hand hesitantly as you melted from the pacifying touch. "Could you do something for me while I'm gone?"


	12. A Cruel World

The past few weeks have been spent in solitude, a lonely, wanderless confinement. The chamber you've been compulsively sulking in for the past few tedious weeks had become accommodating, alluring in a sense.

The assemble of colossal men have continued their brisk formulations and other business ordeals, even after Kylo departed to tend to his overgrown garden of tethered earnest and tousled business. 

Before he escaped the engrossing clutches of New York, and sailed off to San Francisco to tame the boisterous waves of his bosses aquatic turmoil, he had asked you to pay him a few servituding favors. 

Kylo was hammered with commerces, traveling nationwide to tend to his business. During his crucial travels that involved abolishing the resistances' schemes, he had formulated a schedule for you to run by to keep you protected. 

Because you were currently the hotspot of Brooklyn. Assassins and vigilantes all across New York were searching for you, to obliterate you and collect their cash.

The first favor he asked of you was consequential in aiding your recovery, because as vile as the man could be, he was persistent on balancing your health and devotion. 

He insisted that you recovered-- and tediously. At his leisure and grueling command. That meant inconveniently limiting your usage of your injured limb. His mandated, routinely schedule that he prepared for you upon his absence consisted of resting, and any other sluggish, bland activity. You obliged to his other salient request, which was to morally remain imprisoned in the tarnished walls of his base until he returned. 

The quality time you were spending with his grim associates had increased copiously, and the time you spent assisting the resistance in conquering their malicious prosperities descended down the admissible latter. 

A perk to being the temporary recruitment alongside Kylo and his daunting crew, was that you divulged the mechanics and fundamentals of their schemes, learning and adapting to them. This position-- that was arguably of higher authority than the six gruff men based on your apparent importance to Kylo Ren-- offered you an inside scoop of everything.

He was still keen on the idea of blockading you from a lot of the plots his sardonic schemes consisted off. He arranged your avoidance of the group discussions that involved "work ethic" which was just morse code for their cruel intentions for the malevolent, barbaric world. The cruel world that casted its gloomy, unbenign shadow along the other captivating planets as it spun solemnly on its axis. 

Living in the nucleus of the criminative base, that reeked of impertinence, did have its sickening advantages. Because it was a dark, captivating paradise. A coven of filthy lies and cheap coaxing. It was phenomenal, to your heroin swollen brain, and the wreckage of your melancholy heart. 

Disregarding the enthrallment of it all, there were a few trepidating factors of your new, makeshift home, or place of temporary refuge; and that was the amount of danger that strutted through the entrance of the base flamboyantly. 

The organization Kylo commanded was bustling. Although he forbade you from acquainting yourself with any of the obscured faces and suspicious figures that lurked the ominous halls at night, you had detected hundreds of apathetic, somber faces. All of them on the hunt, prowling for a position in this treacherous, scandalous occupation of crime as a last resort. An oblivious one-way ticket to Hell. 

As the balmy, hot embrace of water pacified your fatigued limbs, your mind reeled with frivolous thoughts. You kneaded a mellow, honey scented soap into your scalp, massaging your temple brashly, with the hopes of battering the apprehension out of yourself as you clawed at your splintering head. 

Only for your hasty movements to be fruitless, and the opposite of beneficial. Now, the surface of your scalp beneath the layers of drenched tendrils was raw and irritated, and your head continued to pulsate with each of your hitched breaths. 

Memories of Poe flashed in vibrant, reminiscing colors behind the black abyss of your eyelids whenever you allowed them to flutter shut. Poe Dameron, the amiable next-door neighbor and hospitable escape from your inferior life as a brittle adolescent, the father figure you never had-- was a suspect in the events that had occurred in the hotel only a couple of weeks ago. 

Conversations between you and Poe had been volatile. Non-existing. Even without the domineering commands from Kylo Ren, you had heedfully surrendered to the idea that Poe was the mastermind behind the grotesque schemes that left you wounded and at his mercy. There was no pliable reason for formalities, or contact with him, when you were the crime underworlds hottest target and he could be responsible for it. 

Another reason your trust was wavering, teetering at the edge of rationality, is because the resistance-- conventionally Poe, Finn, or even Jasek-- had bugged your phone. With Kylo being a logical, cognitive thinker, he was unrelenting to assume that you were being tracked, and the first thing he did was breach your phone, tamper with a few things and then debugged it. 

A remorseful, scathing flame of anguish was kindling in your chest as you slothfully trudged through the bathroom. An ivory haze of steam tainted the air, as your feet pattered along the mosaic tiles, embedded with your damp footprints. A soft cotton towel was latching onto your soaking skin, as droplets of warm water cascaded down your body and plummeted to the slippery floor. You slipped past the threshold to your chamber, allowing the steamy fog to emit from the restroom and billow through the stale air. 

A quaint, clementine knock at the main corridor elicited a heavy sigh from your parted lips. With your eyebrows set in a hardline, and your upper lip curled in malice, you pivoted towards the door and stomped your way over to it. 

You clasped the damp towel tauter to your frame, friskily scurrying towards the door as the knock grew to be impatient. Your fist curled around the handle and you breached it open aggressively, expecting Cardo or Ap'lek to be making their daily rounds of 'pestering the fuck out of you.'

Only for Kylo to be hovering on the opposite end of the foyer, hands stuffed into his pockets, lips pursed awkwardly. 

It has been weeks, since the tormenting incident at the Hotel. Since you had seen him in the flesh, radiating his earnestness flagrantly. His musky fumes flooded your nostrils, and his stoicism was just as perturbing and tactile as ever. 

Although things between you have simmered down from brawling rivals to begrudged acquaintances, there was a significant portion of your swelling heart that loathed him. Regardless of the risks he took just to aid you that night. Regardless of the empathy that he revealed, that he proved to be less than volatile. 

His sympathy for you that night was a minuscule fragment of attentiveness. After he briskly carried you to his Lamborghini, he aimlessly zipped through the streets, debating if he should risk his reputation and send you to a hospital or if he should tend to you himself. 

With his egotistic, self-divulgence in mind, he settled on affixing you himself. There was a trickle of aspiration and vulnerability in him as he disinfected the wound. He would flinch at your anguishing screams and sputters of distress, only to coat your gash with exceptionally more rubbing alcohol. 

Kylo breathed your name monotonously and you snapped out of your trance, eyes darting up his broad chest and settling on his expressionless face. He inquisitively studied your face, eyes narrowed as he trudged into your room uninvited and gripped your jaw harshly. 

You seethed with a croaked whimper as his thumb dug into the fractured figments of your jaw. He loosened his scolding grip, squinting to observe the bruised area. His calloused fingers caressed it softly, attentively examining it, tilting your head to the side.

His thumb grazed the blotchy, violet patch of skin that loitered on your jaw, fingers curled around the nape of your neck. You whimpered softly with a prominent pouty lip, eyes fluttering shut. His skin was warm and pacifying, even though the hand caressing your cheek was the same hand that was accountable for countless deaths surrounding Time Square. 

"Were you good for me while I was gone?" He asked in his velvety, rich tone. "Did everything that we put together work?" 

You pondered, sheepishly casting your gaze to the side to avoid his. The rules you complied to as he was gone consisted of trading your freedom to avoid belligerence; staying implanted, routed to the cement floors of the base at all times, unless the perimeter of the place you desired had been authorized by Kylo himself or one of his associates.

It made you feel secure and protected, while simultaneously making you feel trapped and imprisoned. Regardless, you obeyed his commands and allowed one of his associates to trail behind you at all times as you shopped and meandered your way through downtown New York. 

"Yes." You nodded astutely with a queasy grin, chewing your bottom lip. "I was good, I guess." You paused as he cocked a quizzical brow at you. "I was kind of a bitch to Cardo, though."

He huffed dryly in amusement, "He told me." His gaze drifted to your body-- loosely swathed in a beige, soiled towel-- and his jaw clenched, the small and trivial, indented scar beneath his eye fluttered as his face twitched.

He swayed on his feet, eyes mantled on your delicate curves tucked beneath the towel. "I'll be back in an hour. When I'm back, you better be ready." He muttered pointedly through gritted teeth, his dynamic morphing from content to sour within seconds. 

"For what?" You asked hastily, baffled. 

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb. "Just do it." He growled, flashing you the devious glare of a sinner, "Dress in something appropriate. We don't need any wandering eyes." He grumbled possessively, his shrewd, honey-speckled gaze raking over your curves one last time before he disappeared behind the corridor without a trace. 

You blinked at the emptiness encompassing the threshold, before you scurried over to your dresser, which had been stocked full with your clothing. Vicrul and Ap'lek had teamed up and collaboratively collected a vast collection of your belongings from your apartment and hauled them to the base, just for the sensible sake of home. 

It was neutering, sedating your unease, to know that your things were scattered all along the base, as if you made the primitive place your home and took it over completely. Generally, the base felt more like an orphanage as opposed to a real home, and you were content with settling things this way until your safety was guaranteed. 

You sauntered your way over to the lavish wardrobe leniently pressed into the peeling wallpapered walls, rummaging through the broad rows of neatly pressed dresses and pantsuits. Appropriate, you retorted his words inside your head, humming in bewilderment to yourself as you tapped your chin, deep in wanderlust thought. 

His words were embarked with envy, laced with greed, like he was begrudging your body and claiming it as only his to cherish. But, his covetousness was vaguely concealed by a muddied haze of spite, making the thought infeasible. 

You rolled your shoulders apprehensively, fingers plucking at the ornate materials of each dress you briskly shoved out of your way, your bottom lip was fairly bloodied from the wrath of your canines as you sunk them into your plush skin out of nervousness. 

After scanning your unlimited options, you grinned wickedly to yourself and untucked one of your favorite dresses, blatantly disobeying Kylos orders.

It was a scandalous scarlet, satin and alluring, embroidered with the sultry marks of a sinners desire. Tethered, silky ribbons with an intricate crisscross design were laced up on each side like crimson vines, revealing an exceptionally tempting amount of your modest skin. The collar dipped past the valley of your breasts, revealing the perks of your cleavage. The silk was protruding your curves, hugging them tautly and precisely, accentuating your impeccable features. 

The hem was latching onto the soft, jiggling flesh of your mid-thigh as you did a three-sixty spin and observed yourself in the full length mirror in the corner of your chamber. You looked ravishing, swathed in luxurious fabric, and all dolled up with a moderate coat of makeup. 

A marvelous nude painted your lips, flared eyeliner with a keen point outlined your eyelids, and a settled rouge blushed your cheeks. You smoothed out your dress briskly, as you pinned your hair up into a slick bun. Curled strands of baby hairs framed your face and tickled your forehead as you beamed at yourself in the mirror one last time. There was a blistering knock at the door. 

You scrambled for the door, your Louboutin's clanking into the tiled flooring as you waddled over, adjusting the hem of your dress and peeling the door open hesitantly. 

Kylo Ren was standing there flamboyantly with a heaving chest, his teeth barring together as his animalistic gaze devoured your body with yearning and lust that was palpable, discarding the sweet taste of desire on the tip of your quenched tongue. 

"What did I explicitly tell you not to do?" He breathed through gritted teeth, taking a singular step towards you, trapping you against his broad chest. "Hm?" He hummed navally, pursing his lips as his veiny hand shot out and engulfed your throat.

His fingertips applied pressure, his palm crushing your windpipes as he seethed. "You're a fucking brat." He hissed accusingly, tightening his grip on your throat and you wheezed, clawing at his wrist fruitlessly. 

"I thought that taking you out tonight would be the right thing to do." He spat, his face contorting into a snarl as he squeezed relentlessly, until the blood was draining from your face and your lungs were malfunctioning. "But you wanna be a tease instead, hm?" He loosened his remorseless grip just enough for you to croak a response. 

You coughed manically, blinking away the hot tears prickling at your eyelids. "No." You shook your head vigorously. "I'm sorry." 

He inhaled sharply, folding at the waist to level his plump lips with your ear. He hummed, the throaty, gravelly sound emitted warm fumes from his flared nostrils as his lips latched onto your earlobe and nibbled gingerly. You mewled and pinched the hem of his blazer between your forefinger and thumb, tugging softly.

His breath tickled your flesh as he trailed passionate kisses down to your neck, his hand cupping your hip, thumb massaging your hipbone. "You're just such a filthy whore," He clicked his tongue in disapproval, snickering mundanely into your flesh. "Craving validation." He mumbled through a sloppy kiss upon your pulse. "From me, and everybody else, hm?" 

You just whimpered meekly in response, abruptly tamed by his dominance and intimidation. Warmth pooled in your lower belly as he growled into your skin, nipping at it with his teeth, rolling the flesh between his tongue. 

He removed his lips from your tingling throat, only to press them into your swollen lips. His tongue sloppily slipped in and out of your mouth, jaw slack. You matched the eagerness of his brutal kiss, lips parted to allow him access inside. 

His knuckles connected with your cheek, a voluptuous crack reverberated around the room as you wailed in pain, your hand flying up to knead the sensitive, buzzing skin. 

He stared at you for a moment, challenging you with narrowed eyes as you surrendered and inhaled with shaky, hitched breaths, your tainted lips quivering. 

"Around here, you will learn how to obey me." He drawled tediously, nodding along with himself and pointing at you. "Am I understood?" His fingers were pinching your jaw, waving your face from side to side, jeering you as his muse as he smirked prudently when you nodded swiftly. 

"Good girl." A feigned smile formed on his rosy lips, as he pet your hair with admiration and looped his arm around yours. "Let's go, before we are late." 

The blood rose to the bubbling surface of your skin, pins and needles prickling at your splintering cheek. You wore a perplexed, mesmerized expression, even though deep down you were enthralled with his dominance, as you had been a handful of times before. 

Like an expertly trained, obedient pet, you waltzed by his side and clasped onto his bulky bicep as he guided you down the auburn-tainted foyer, leading you to the main entrance of the base. 

As you bristled past the armory, all of the associates that had been moping around and making insolent, childish jokes had frozen with their jaws unhinged in captivation, mouths watering in arousal as they watched you zip past them. 

Disregarding them, the array of different titanium corridors and narrow hallways wisped past you in colorless spurts. 

Once you escaped the ravenous clutches of the base, you raked in the acidic scent of the cities autumn breeze through your nostrils graciously, smiling contently as the wind tampered with your dismantled updo. You searched for that familiar dazzling cherry red of the Lamborghini, only to be greeted with a polished, recently waxed Cadillac as it hummed lowly and welcomed you with the toxic fumes of its exhaust. 

Kylo peeled the door open for you first, steadying you with a firm hand on your hip as you wobbled and climbed into the backseat. He waited for you to situate yourself before he slipped in beside you and slammed the door shut. 

The driver blatantly glimpsed you from over his shoulder, his eyes lingering on your breasts for unconventionally way too long, before he swiveled back around and ignited the vehicle by shifting the gears and zooming past the complex-- his balding head was sheeny, his wrinkles were affable, and his features were stoic, as he disregarded your presence entirely after that. Your thoughts strayed to your personal driver back at the resistance. The clad elderly man that kept to himself and complied to your orders without complication.

"Where are we going?" You whispered, fiddling with your fingers in your lap. 

Kylo sighed, shooting daggers at you with his deadly glare, his hand snaking across the leather seat and gripping your thigh. 

"Manhattan," he muttered through another enthusiastic sigh. "For an important dinner. I was advised to bring a plus one." He glanced at you, batting his eyelashes, as his hand slipped higher and higher up your thigh. 

You swallowed and nodded solemnly, stifling the urge to mewl as his hand kneaded the flesh of your thigh as it neared your core. 

His pointer and middle finger grazed the sensitive flesh of your lips through your panties and you jolted, gaping at him in horror. 

"Shh." He whispered hotly in your ear, his free hand stroking your hair and brushing it over your shoulder as his fingertips ghosted your slit and you squirmed.

His lips abruptly latched onto your neck and you stiffened despite the desirable sensation, pressing your hips into his finger and forcing him to trace your clit. You chewed your bottom lip to suppress a moan, tilting your head to the side to allow him better access to your throat. 

"I saw the way he was looking at you," he mumbled into your skin, with a sense of possessiveness that was raw and tangible. "And he can't have you. Only I can." He growled under his breath, sinking his teeth into your neck and you squeaked, bucking your hips in response. "You're mine now."

A trickle of aspiration coursed through your veins and you grinned deviously, circling his wrist and guiding his fingers to the dampening hem of your lace panties. You held his lustrous gaze as you used his fingers to pry your panties away from you pussy, shoving them to the side. His upper lip twitched into a snarl and he plowed his fingers into your slit, dragging them up and down teasingly. 

You choked on your wanton moan, rocking your pelvis into his hand as he tauntingly eased two fingers into your core. Your hands shot out to grapple with the material of his blazer as your jaw went slack, pleasure stimulating in your cunt as he scissored his digits in and out of you slowly. 

The drivers face was porcelain and pale, blood running cold as his frightened gaze locked on yours-- wild and animalistic-- through the rear-view mirror. Kylo noticed and snickered egotistically, curling his fingers and plucking your sweet spot, his thumb massaging your clit. 

Your peak was teetering towards you at a rapid speed as you moaned flagrantly, accepting the daunting role as Kylo's needy pawn as the driver sneered in disgust, humiliation and envy. 

"I need to cum." You whisper shouted through a strained, distorted moan, clenching around his fingers as he pumped them in and out of you. 

"Then cum." He demanded. "Cum for daddy." 

You gasped lewdly, your body convulsing as your climax crashed into you like a tidal wave. You trembled tremendously as you trashed and you came on his fingers, jaw dropped in ecstasy. 

He slowed the pace of his fingers, the joints in his wrist snapping as he eased them out of you. Your cum pooled on the tips of his fingers and he smiled an ear to ear grin and took them into his mouth, sucking them clean with a satisfied hum as you watched him through hooded eyes breathlessly. 

Your head went limp and you crashed your temple into his shoulder, blinking fervently to contain yourself after your orgasm. His hand slithered up your arm, twirling your hair between his fingers and massaging your scalp. 

"Now I need you to be on your best behavior once we arrive." He whispered earnestly with raised eyebrows, continuously stroking your hair as your eyes fluttered shut and you nuzzled your cheek into his bicep, sinking into the warmth of his limbs. "Because you're going to be meeting someone very important tonight."


	13. Ragazzo

Chirpy clanks of dishes. Feigned laughs. Dress-clad women, suit-garbed men. The restaurants atmosphere was urbane, luxurious. Opulent. Almost like the twilight-zone, dreams seemed to vanquish and thoughts seemed to swarm in the form of all things... faux and rich.

Waiting to be escorted to your designated table for the night proved to be tedious. The outdoor space was congested with tables, all filled with rich people, who nipped away at fancy sautéed meals.

Kylo's hand rested gradually on your hip, holding you steadily to his side. His leather shoe tapping the floor impatiently. His jaw was clenched, eyes flickering over the skyline beaming off in the distance solemnly, thumb subconsciously pinching at the fabric of your dress.

You crane your neck, lips ghosting his pulse, brushing across his jawline. "Must be busy tonight, hm?" You hum gingerly into his freshly-shaven skin, the scent of overpriced shaving foam clinging to his smooth jaw.

He sighs contently, dark eyelashes fluttering in response to the plushness of your lips chafing across his jaw. "Mhm." He gruffs back, chest rumbling, hand slithering from your hip and splaying on your back, rubbing light circles.

"Who exactly are we meeting here tonight?" You mumble, nibbling at his earlobe teasingly, smiling into him as he groans softly.

His lips caress your forehead, "Just relax." He mutters into your temple, his romanesque nose exhaling sharply into your face as he huffs.

His words merely eased your trepidation— they only heightened your senses with a frittering sort of anxiety that completely hallowed you out and left you at its mercy. The formality of it all in itself, submerged you in turmoil. Unease.

Kylo's hands and lips dispersed from your body as you sauntered side by side through the clusters of tables— unbeknownst to you, nearing the man whom possessed the faculty to make you meet your maker by a simple snide if he deemed as necessary.

In the most secluded cranny of the balcony— was a table being sustained by three... corrupt men. All of them diverse in complexion, but identical by cruelty. All of them pale, and pudgy, and smothered in their own immorality.

"Ren." A grizzly voice of abhorrence greets. The words spilling from a pair of thin lips. The face to pair with the freakishly-grim voice was even scarier than the raspy voice.

With a detrimentally white, wrinkled descollage, and features that were purely ghoulish... the man sits lanky and thin, eyeing you up with disdain as you approach the table of undignified men.

"Snoke." Kylo greets mundanely. Nodding curtly. Extending his hand across the table to shake the familiar-executives worn, wrinkled hand.

"A mani vuote, di nuovo." Snoke meticulously drawls to Kylo, speaking in authentic Italian, plucking his cuticles.

"Who's the lovely lady?" A different, british voice asks suavely. Your eyes flicker to the even paler man perched just adjacent to Snoke. His fiery-ginger locks sat slicked back on the top of his head. His pale blue eyes gleaming with villainous contempt.

Snoke firmly waves his hand at him in dismissal, spearing him with a glare. You and Kylo descend into your seats just across from the two men, not even acknowledging the gray-haired man parked silently next to them.

"I would suggest keeping your flattery to yourself, Hux. Don't wanna upset Ren, now do we?" Snoke quips darkly. Eyes narrowing into accusing slits, scrutinizing Kylo.

Your cheeks burn a ruby-red. You study Kylo in your peripherals, as he stares pretentiously back at Snoke. His hand gripping his fork tightly. Jaw barred. Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows.

He clears his throat, breaking eye contact, unfolding a cloth napkin and aimlessly splaying it across his lap. "I suggest refraining from speaking at all," he shoots towards Hux, fidgeting with the cloth.

The quiet man snorts at that, smirking wryly. "I second that statement." He chirps.

Kylo starts to chuckle, only for Snoke's hand to slam into the table in a reprimanding smack. "Enough." He spits. "I would like to enjoy a simple meal without the two of you bickering," he sneers accusingly. "And I would like to learn more about our new... friend, here."

Every pair of serpentine-like eyes darts to you, earning them all a perplexed, bashful smile from you.

Kylo leers at all of them. "Mi prenderò cura di lei più tardi." He grumbles back, your eyebrows furrowing as he speaks fluently in a language so foreign and elegant to you.

Kylo sneaks his hand under the table then. Discreetly, leisurely, gripping your thigh, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

"We aren't here for introductions." He intervenes, muttering the words lethargically. "I'm here for my money."

Snoke blinks at him. Exchanging an amused look with Hux, before barking out a laugh, snickering ravenously. "You crack me up, Ren." He mocks bitterly, still laughing. "We're here for whatever the fuck I say we're here for."

Hux snickers— only to choke on his own laughter when Snoke shoots him another look that resembled pure vain and consequence.

"Now. Let's order, shall we?"

***

The dinner was not going according to yours or Kylo's favor. Correction; not dinner. It was an interrogation. You were scrutinized literally and metaphorically. Your thoughts being molded by the hands of Snoke and his nefarious set of men. 

After an hour of meaningless conversation, and one too many glasses of champagne, Hux spoke up, speaking on a whim.

"So, Ren. When are you going to tell your little friend here?" He inquests, voice laced with prudence. Smirking, cocking his head in mockery, hands clasped.

Kylo's hand snakes away from your thigh, gliding up his chest to adjust the collar of his shirt apprehensively. "About." He asks. Although nothing about his tone read concern nor bewilderment. It was only monotone.

"Oh, don't play fucking good guy, all of a sudden." Hux snaps, scoffing, scowling poisonously at Kylo.

He stiffens, fisting his fork, teeth gritting as he glares at his warped acquaintance through his eyelashes. "Don't fuck with me tonight. I'm not in the mood for cleaning up a mess." He growls cautiously, voice low and dangerous.

"I'm just curious." He jeers, shrugging, humming wittily, as he stabs the slab of juicy steak adorning his plate. "With how close you two seem and all, It's a wonder she—"

"Hux." He snarls. Chest expanding with his hefty breath. Eyes fogged with a menacing darkness. His gaze doesn't leave his opponent, as they battle through pompous stares.

You scoff. "I'm curious too, actually." You snide, blinking harshly at Kylo, lips pulling into a befuddled grimace.

"See," Hux muses, raising a brow, taking a victorious sip of aged wine from his glass.

The tendons in his jaw flex stringently, neck nearly straining as he purses his lips. He turns slowly to face you.

"You and I will talk later." He states calmly, undereye twitching. Spewing you with a warning look.

"Come on, Ren!" Snoke chimes, prying him, smirking wickedly. "Tell the girl."

He stays silent. Spearing a chunk of his sautéed, shriveled mushroom, aggressively swiping the bite off his fork. Chewing intensely. Staring down at his plate.

"I'm not doing this," you eventually breathe, plowing out of your chair, ascending from your seat.

Kylo's hand belligerently shoots out and snatches your wrist. "Sit down." He glowers up at you, biting the words.

You twist your wrist arduously in his grasp. "Let go." You hiss, eyebrows furrowed.

"Sit. Down." He seethes and tugs on your wrist forcefully, sending you plummeting into your seat with a squeak. His hand continues to restrain your wrist as he aggressively leers into your ear, "You're not leaving this table."

Snoke ushers for a server. They scramble over to him, and he mutters into their ear discreetly, as Kylo grumbles threats and eyes you sternly.

Suddenly, the waiter starts to escort the entire cluster of people into the building, gesturing for them to enter through the opulent gates, as everybody spills out of the balcony, muttering in bewilderment to one another.

The balcony was now vacant; other than you, Snoke, and his notorious consigliere's.

Your chest gyrates with an essence of discomfort, fear churning in your gut, as Snoke laughs hoarsely.

"Enough games," he barks, adjusting his silk-red tie with his wrinkly, eld hands. "Do we need to go over the plan, Ren?"

Kylo clears his throat. "This isn't necessary. You know what I've come for." He says.

"You possess no power to dictate me, ragazzo." He sneers, gaze colder than ice. "I've made my orders very clear. She's not negotiable."

Your heart plummets to your gut, pounding perniciously, pulse leaping in terror. "Excuse me?" You murmur, voice heedful and quiet.

"Hux." Snoke demands potently.

He rises bullishly from his seat, agilely rounding the table. You squirm in your seat, when his fingers dig into your flesh.

"Stop this!" Kylo barks out, moving to ascend from his chair, only for Snoke to rebuke him with one assertive look of warning.

"What are you doing?" You squeal as Hux lugs you out of your seat, manhandling you, hauling you out of your chair. Arm looping around your shoulders from the front, embracing you belligerently.

"Let her go, Hux." Kylo urges, extending his hands in surrender, steadying his serious voice. "Let's not start trouble... not tonight." He shakes his head.

You thrashed in the bold restraint that Hux was inflicting upon you, grunting, grimacing in the villainous clutches of the ginger man.

"Stay still." Hux mutters breathily into your ear, his embrace around your body egregiously tight.

You squirm, whining in his inimical, malign hold, bucking your hips away from his slender body. "Get off of me.." you defend dolefully.

"Shut your bitch up, Ren." He sneers, hand coming up to ruinously seize your jaw.

"Hux," Kylo roars, springing up from his chair hostilely, sending it knocking over and thudding into the mosaic tiles below you.

"Stand down." Snoke gruelingly shrills Kylo, bracing the handles of his chair, as he sits up maliciously.

Their depraved quarrel rings aimlessly in your ears, as your eyes zone in on the fork you had utilized just moments before, glistening under the pale moons misanthropic glow.

Your breath quivers, eyes darting to Kylo— his eyes had followed yours to the piece of shimmery silverware. He swallows, eyes boring back through yours. 

"I said I would handle it," He affirms them through a gulp, taking one deliberate stride nearer, discreetly pushing the fork closer to the edge of the table in the process. "When will you ever learn to just trust my process, Snoke?"

His plan dawns on you as he continues to direct the fork nearer to the ledge of the table, the cloth bunching nimbly with the sneaky movement. You steady your quaking breaths, waiting for just the right moment to make your pounce.

"Let's talks about her dead parents shall we, Ren?" Hux quips spitefully in your ear, and your body convulses with utter terror and perplexion, your head whipping to face him.

"You heard me, bitch!" He snarfs, snickering at your aghast reaction.

Without taking the time to absorb his words, or digest your own fragmentary feelings, your hand extends for the fork— you curl your fist around the silver handle, lurching your arm back, forcefully drilling the tiny prongs into his shoulder.

"Ah, fuck!" He cries, groaning in agony, staggering backwards. 

You swing your arm back and drill it into him again. And again. And again. Shoving the cold titanium into his throat, sending beads of blood splattering through the air, as you plunge the fork all throughout his neck.

Raw, untamed, ravenous adrenaline kindles with proclivity within your body, that pulsates upon every tip and crevice of your skin with anger.

Kylo's burley arms interlock around your body in a condemning embrace, trying to restrain you, as you thrash into his body and delve onto the floor where Hux now bristled and flopped, gargling on the blood that gushed from at least forty different slits in his neck.

"Hey." Kylo grills, "That's enough. That's enough—" He grunts, voice strained with exasperation, as he lugs you off of Hux's trembling, gawking body.

"You b-bastard!" You shriek boisterously, spitting the words, shuddering in Kylo's arms as you struggle to come down from the high of fiery-hot adrenaline that soared through your veins.

Snoke sat there, stroking his jaw, surveying the gruesome, egregious scene unfolding in front of him with pursed lips and a ripple surfacing in his nearly translucent eyebrows. He was considering you. Writhing, sobbing, twisting in his underbosses arms.

"Y-you fucking asshole!" You blubber, gulping down your spit, that was thicker than molasses with disdain, shriveling in Kylo's big arms as his chest swells manically into your frame. Holding you painfully tight to his broad body.

"You need to start—" Hux heaves, gagging, as a shocking amount of blood starts to spew from his jugular, his hands shakily trying to sustain the wounds, "p-putting your dog on a d-damn leash."

That was the tipping point to your already hurdling, blinding, minacious rage.

A burning scream tears through your throat as you lunge for him, reaching him just enough to thrust the fork straight into the socket of his eye, twisting it arduously, as he howls in agony and convulses.

Kylo combatantly tackles you to the ground then, straddling your waist, fighting the thrash of your arms with a grunt. He drills your wrists into the slick tile, pinning them there forcefully, eyes meeting yours meaningfully as you kick and writhe underneath his domineering hold.

"Hey," he commands, voice a rumbling growl demanding to be inherited. He squeezes your wrists, thumbs digging into your palms, forcing your hands to quiver and ease open. The crimson fork clanks into the tile as it falls from your trembly grasp.

Your breaths were labored, pulse drumming exuberantly in your head, thudding in your temple. You blinked at him drearily, breaths hitching, as he pokes his tongue past his plump lips and pants heavily. Peering down at you blankly, although his eyes scream to be heard with an undistinguished emotion. His grip on your wrists starting to make your fingertips prickle with an appending numbness.

"Breathe." He mutters. Inhaling, directing you through a tranquilizing breathing exercise, hands not letting up from your bruised wrists. The cracked screams and cries emerging from Hux's throat start to coincide with the loud melody of your heart pounding. 

"Breathe." He repeats, nodding solemnly and extremely discreetly in approval, as you start to mock his pacified breathing patterns. Meeting each other's unwavering stares in the process.

In the meantime, Snoke and the other man scrambled to tend to Hux and his wounds once realization struck them, and they succumbed to the idea that you were capable of murdering him after your previous action.

His frame was gargling and gyrating, blood streaming down his face, coating his features in a dark, grueling burgundy. They feel aimlessly around his slashed up neck for a pulse— only to feel absolutely nothing in return.


	14. You Own Me

It has been one long week since your morbid, bloody wrath upon Hux. And in this extensive, trepidating week, a years worth of macabre events had occurred like a splintering domino effect. 

After everything, between the fraudulence of the daunting man that was attaining your trust, and the evoking, catastrophic news of Poe, your cognitive health was at an all time low. 

Your apprehension had spewed keen daggers of melancholy through your dejected veins, and now, here you were; in a timorous solitude, with a half-empty bottle of vodka, watching the suns somber, auburn departure as it waved its solemn farewells and disappeared behind the muddied brim of the earth, painting the sky with a violet tainted hue.

The alcohol did a substantial job at numbing your agony. When the world danced around you in vibrant, coruscating colors, spinning and enthralling you with its alluring blur, it was easy to slip away from your peril-inflicted mind, to disregard your morals and spiraling notion, and just succumb to the sweat inducing intoxication of a copious amount of liquor.

In the tediously-ticking span of five days, you've managed to separate yourself from Kylo Ren-- and it was thriving to be the greatest complication of your life. Escaping him was implausible, even when you flourished to blend in with the bustling crowds of clustered New Yorkers.

After the audacious events transpired in that vaguely, amber-illuminated alleyway, you were enraptured by his diabolical embrace and nurtured back to civility by his patchy, blood-stained hands. 

He bathed you in frittering, lukewarm water, as you sulked in a saturated pool of crimson and stared aimlessly at the glistening faucet, disregarding the immoral man that had crumbled his facade just to pacify you, cleansing and dabbing a moist washcloth into your brittle skin. 

His actions, that were ginger and altruistic, were boisterous compared to his volatile words. The ordeal that Kylo Ren, the lord of arson and sardonic sin, was aiding you through recovery, should've satisfied you. Your thoughts on the tribulations were opposing. You just wanted to hear him apologize to you. The remorseful gleam in his blackened gaze wasn't enough to salvage your stability.

He observed you with palpable attent, his nostrils would flare and scrunch with each seethe and whimper that would elicit from your throat whenever he dipped the cotton rag into your protruding wounds. The gash in your palm was fresh and oxiding the water a murky burgundy, rippling in soft waves around your quivering limbs.

"Dameron... is fine." He had rambled, wringing out the billowing water from the tarnished rag, sending rippling droplets into the porcelain tub, before smoothing the moist rag over your skin. "He's injured, but it's nothing fatal." 

His words poured over you like molten lava, engraving scathing, raw wounds into your virtuous flesh, setting your skin ablaze with humiliation. How could you be this insolent, to blatantly invite the nefarious master of crime, into your life? Allow him to tamper with your sanity, and mold your brain like elastic clay, into the feeble space he desired? 

"Say something." He pried gruffly, the washcloth plummeted into the water, sending wads of muddied scarlets into the steam-emitted air. His long, wet fingers twitched as he outstretched them, pinching your chin softly between his calloused digits.

You nibbled on your bottom lip, suppressing the urge to break down into another chain of soul-wrenching sobs. You embraced your legs tauter to your chest, resting your chin on your kneecap, sniffling down your disdain and turning away from him sharply.

"Don't be like that," he hissed. He flicked the crimson beads of water off of his satin hands, grappling for the dinted, unlenient bottle of shampoo resting on the edge of the porcelain tub. He aggressively squeezed a fragranced glob into his palm, rubbing it together briskly, before his fingers feathered through your scalp and massaged the oily soap into your damp locks.

He scolded your name, his brash tone was contradicting compared to the lavish kneads of his fingers as he massaged the suds into your tendrils. "You have put everything on the line for me."

His broad shoulders slouched, and his hand encompassed the nape of your neck as he stroked your soapy hair and dipped your head back into the bubbling, fizzy bath water. Your eyes sealed shut, cheeks puffing as you held your breath and let him rinse the suds from your hair.

You gasped in a lungful of steamy air when you returned to the surface, blinking away the water droplets accumulating on your eyelashes. "Then why am I still here, Kylo?" You asked, your voice was loitered with fragility, hoarse and vulnerable, as you stared at the faint ribbons of mold speckling the tiled walls. 

Before he could respond, you robustly rubbed the black drizzles of mascara soaring down your heat-flushed cheeks with your knuckles, before slamming them into the water exasperatedly. "It's clear that your objective was to kill me. Do us both a favor and do it." You murmured the hissed, vexed words, glaring at him. 

His fingers, that were plucking and threading through your hair, paused. His expression was stoic, as he pursed his lips. His hands tediously slipped out of your hair, dipping into the water instead, as his forearms dangled loosely over the edge of the tub. 

He pondered for a long time, as if he was consuming your words vigilantly and considering them, before he unhinged his barred jaw and sighed. 

"Trust me," he mumbled pointedly, his fingertips tapping the base of the bathtubs porcelain floor, as he stared blankly at the crimson pool of water. "I don't do favors for anybody other than myself."

His poised flamboyance irked you, and you scoffed bitterly. "Trust you?" You barked, plowing through the water and standing up forcefully, sending water swooshing around everywhere. "How am I supposed to trust you?" You waddled out of the tub, snatching a cloth towel off of the supply rack, vigorously swathing yourself. 

He arose from the floor, his knees popping from the brisk, abrupt movement. "You're being ungrateful." He sneered, jabbing an accusing finger at you. "I've been putting myself at risk for a month, just to protect you!" His boisterous voice roared, reverberating around the mosaic, polished walls as he stampeded towards you, snatching your bicep in his hand. 

"The least you can fucking do is trust me." His grip tightened on your bicep and you whimpered, swatting his hand away, only for him to shake you aggressively and yank you towards him. "He hurt you." His tone dropped a few octaves, and you flinched as his other hand crushed your cheek, his teeth gritting as his malicious gaze darted between your glossy eyes.

"Dameron hurt you. Not me." He murmured, and a few tears of anguish and fear smothered your face and cascaded down your rouge cheeks, your lips quivering, as he released you from his immoral grip. 

"Everybody hurts me," you whispered heedfully, your trembling fingers slithering up your face and applying pressure to the bruise he just embedded into your skin. "But you've... ruined me, Kylo Ren."

The sun was just a figment of your ambiguous, incohesive memory, as the polluted sky was now littered with twinkling stars, and the moon, that radiated its doleful sheen, was peering down at you with a crestfallen smile.

Even with the splintering migraine piercing your mushy skull, and the hoarseness of your scorching throat, you continued to gulp down the vodka as if it was your lifeline, and you needed the tangy liquor to survive. 

Pins and needles prickled at your numbing limbs, and that only enthused you further, pouring every last droplet of alcohol down your throat, before smashing the bottle into the ground and wobbly springing up to your feet. You swayed with each disoriented step, the shards of glass crunching beneath your boots.

The refreshing, befouled view of the bustling city glistened, the white, luminous lights of the soaring skyscrapers glimmering and obscuring your hazy vision, as you sluggishly trudged across the concrete-path leading to the stairwell. You were relishing beneath the night sky on a random apartment complexes rooftop, and now, you were planning on merging to a local bar.

The receptionist at the entrance scowled, her face shriveling up in bewilderment, as you limped past the spiraling-glass doors. You were reunited with the mellow, autumn air, and you smiled queasily as you fumbled for a cigarette. 

You popped one into your mouth, nibbling on the edge, as you released your lighter from your bra and briskly lit the tip. Ivory smoke billowed through the air around you, as you hollowed out your cheeks and puffed it out through your chapped lips. 

There was a bar merely two blocks away from the complex, and you slothfully carried your fatigued limbs along the crumbling sidewalks all the way there. You were alleviated when you pivoted around a corner, inhaling the immense fumes of bourbon. 

The catastrophic mixture of fleeing Kylo Ren and your disassociation with the resistance, has resurfaced your old, morbid habits. Prowling for drunk men to seduce into your trap of deceit. And tonight, the sardonic thirst for a lustful mans blood was palpable. 

The doors wafted open, as brawny, whiskey-scented men spilled out of the entrance, howling in laughter and barking out cackles. You scrambled past them, entering the breached doors. 

The interior of the bar was substandard and tacky, dimly illuminated by outdated, auburn lightbulbs that peeked through the invasive ceilings. The color scheme was minimized to hickory browns and tawny tans, from the leather barstools, to the peeling, tarnished wallpapered walls. 

You waltzed over to the bar, climbing one of the high-rise barstools, propping your elbows on the glacial, granite countertop. Alternative rock filtered the hefty air, you drummed the counters frigid surface with your fingers, basking in the warm glow of the canary-yellow lights. 

"What's your go to?" A mans voice asked inquisitively at your side, and you glared at the daring stranger in your peripherals, before forcing a queasy smile on your lips and swiveling to face him. 

An unfamiliar man, that appeared to be in his early-forties, stroked his charcoal tainted stubble curiously, as he observed you through narrowed eyes. You suppressed a prudent smirk. 

"A martini." You mused leisurely, your dull words slurring together. 

He puckered his lips and nodded in rhythm with the voluminous song, Paradise City, by Guns 'n' Roses, as it ricocheted off of the begrimed walls. His eyes drifted away from yours, scanning your face, a gleam of befuddlement twinkling in his crystal, seafoam eyes. 

"Did you get into a fight?" He asked harmlessly, straightening his posture and squinting his eyes as he studied your bruised cheek. "Ouch!" He seethed through clenched teeth, leaning back into his stool, taking a sip of his beer. 

Your fingertips subconsciously grazed your scarlet, timidly painted cheek, tracing the violet, yellow tainted marks of Kylos fingerprints. "Oh..." You blinked at him, your bashful, sheepish gaze dropping to your lap. "Um, no. Just an accident." You chirped breathily, chuckling nervously, lifting your head and staring at your surroundings. 

"Ah." He smacked his lips, threading his fingers together and settling his clasped hands on his knee. "Well, can I get you a drink?"

You grinned appreciatively, "Sure." 

After an hour of chugging down watered-down martinis by the glass and babbling to the fanciable, fairly aged man, your conversing morphed from platonic and hospitable, to seductive and enticed in a matter of minutes, as the alcohol settled in your sputtering systems. 

His breath reeked of Bud Light and bourbon, the flavor of his lips acidic and alluring, as yours— swollen and tainted rouge— rhythmically eloped with his. Your fingers curled around the nape of his neck, slithering through his hair, exploring the grayscape of his tendrils.

He hummed into your lips as they sloppily entwined, both of your alcohol-possessed mechanisms were jittery and unethical, as your other hand fisted the collar of his shirt and tugged yearnfully. One of his hands was planted on your hip, the other grappled with your bicep and you seethed into his mouth when he squeezed the bruised flesh. 

Your lips detangled with a sappy smack, both of you raking in air by the lungful, as he stared at you with furrowed eyebrows. You coyly glanced over his shoulder, eyes darting back to him, only for you to do a double-take when you noticed a colossal figure looming in the corner of the bar. With six men that compared to his audacious demeanor, alongside him. 

Cardo was searing holes through your retinas, his shoulders hunched and stiff, his black eyes bulging from his head. The other men were divulging in a game of poker, wailing hysterical and nudging each other around. Kylo was in the corner of the clustered booth, wallowing in his own dejection, as he clasped his hands together and peered down at his twiddling thumbs. 

You stifled a gasp, feverishly meeting the soft, rippling ocean of blues that loitered in the hospitable mans gaze. You pressed a wet peck to his lips, nipping at his bottom lip, "Can we go back to your place?" You rasped into his mouth and he nodded instantaneously, kissing you hastily. 

He adjusted the wrinkling fabric of his button-up, smoothing out his trench coat, as you hopped off of the barstool and seized the nameless man by his wrist, wobbly striding through the drunk crowd with him staggering behind you. 

"Woah, somebodies eager!" He chuckled wryly to himself, and fortunately for you, your tousled hair obscured him from seeing the blatant roll of your blood-shot eyes.

You brashly elbowed the exit-door open, the man skimmed past you and froze at the threshold, as the blood drained from your face and frosted your skin over with a ghostly shade of blue. 

All of the men were huddled together, muttering malice to one another, glaring in your direction. And Kylo... was simply gone. He vanished, his existence scarcely volatile. Your breath hitched in your throat when you heard that grizzly, baritone voice roar your name. He was staunchly plowing through the crowd, sweeping the partiers off of their feet with his authoritative strides. 

"My car is parked just around this corner," the man beamed, poking your arm heedfully. You blinked vigorously to decompose the terror flashing vibrantly beyond your aghast eyes, following him with frivolous steps as he gingerly guided you by your forearm.

He drove a black, virtuously scrubbed and updated '88 Camaro. He popped the passenger door open for you, and you slipped inside hurriedly, with an appreciative, lopsided smile. He grinned cheekily back, with that 'I'm about to get laid' smirk sprouting on his lips. 

Just as he crammed himself into the drivers seat, you watched as Kylo busted down the entrance to the bar through the rear-view mirror. He glanced in both directions vehemently, his chest heaving with his grueling breaths, as he aimlessly searched for you. 

He aggressively feathered his fingers through his hair, screaming a prominent, guttural "Fuck!" And nearly shredding a chunk of his hair out as he gritted his teeth. 

The engine of the Camino roared to life, and you gasped in apprehension when Kylos head shot up, ears perking due to the boisterous sound. His jaw clenched, and a diabolical smirk tugged at his lips, as he eerily took his pliable time creeping back into the bar.

The brief cruise to the mans apartment took less than five minutes. The windows were idly ajar, allowing the glacial breeze to billow through the car and pacify your perturbed, skittish nerves. 

Apart of you harbored guilt, because your intentions for this man were the opposite of amiable. They were bewitchingly gruesome, conning and callous. Murder was the only speculating thing on your radar for vengeance, on Kylo Ren, Poe, and the amateur population of vigilantes that accompanied the resistance in their barbaric schemes. 

The remorse evaporated, clouding into a muddied haze of courage, when you trampled through the threshold of his apartment and saw his wedding photo displayed flagrantly upon the mantle of his fireplace. You plastered on a steel facade of obliviousness, disregarding the photograph of him and his wife. 

"You're so handsome," you cooed provocatively, biting your bottom lip seductively, as you bored your sultry gaze into his. He sucked in a quivering breath, his eyes widening just a smidge, as you reached for his fingers and tugged them to your mouth. 

You slipped two of his fingers into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks, and swirling your tongue around his fingertips. He whimpered as you hummed into his digits, sealing your lips around them and pumping them in and out deliberately. 

You licked his fingers as you slipped them back out, tracing his cuticles with the tip of your tongue, and he groaned. When you released his fingers from your mouth the second time, you dragged the pads of his fingers down your bottom lip, painting it in your own saliva, as you grinned deviously. 

"Fuck." He grumbled, his chest swelling with each of his labored breaths. You suckled on the tip of his finger, blinking at him slowly with a dose of allure pooling in your irises. 

"Lay back on the couch." You demanded softly, pointing at the leather sofa perched adjacent to the colossal bay window, where the moons sapphire sheen was cascading through and tainting the organza sheers. 

He obliged without haste, scrambling over to the couch eagerly, plopping down with an appeased grunt. His eyes were wide, desire accumulated in swimming circles around his blue, viridian speckled gaze. 

"You're gorgeous," his breath was quipped as if he was distraught over your remarkable beauty. His hands grasped both of your hips tenderly when you creeped towards him, slipping into his lap, straddling him. 

You smiled benignly, giggling coyly and placing a hand on his heaving chest as you tilted your head and pressed passionate, sloppy kisses to his pulse, peppering his skin with your smudged lipstick. He purred, his breaths wafting into your ear as you rolled your hips into his clothed shaft to stimulate friction, his hands guiding you closer as he mewled. 

You nibbled on his flesh, humming softly as his hands started gliding up your waist, when exuberant pounding emitted from the rapturing doorframe. The metal handle was shaking voluptuously, sending vibrations throughout the entire apartment. 

"I should prob-" You shushed him by pressing your fingers into his lips, whimpering a soft moan as you felt his bulge poke your clit, nagging his flesh with your teeth and suckling a welt into his skin. 

"You should stay right here," you mumbled earnestly, licking a stripe down to his collarbone, and succumbed to the warmth of your curling lips, melting beneath you. 

There was a thunderous bang, and the rustic, croaky hinges of the door plummeted into the mahogany floors, chipping away the surface of the frisky wood as it clanked at the end of the foyer. The entire corridor belched as it groaned, unlatching from the doorframe and colliding with the floor, as accumulated dust wafted into the air and formed a tawny cloud of grime. 

You gasped in lungfuls of trepidating air, as the insufferable tension built brick by brick, thickening like raw, churning honey, when the strident groans of the floorboard ricocheted around the now eerily still apartment. 

Before you could remedy the harboring burden of fear that was rapturing your twinging heart, Kylo Ren slipped through the threshold with bloody, splintered knuckles, and sweat-matted hair lingering on his greasy skin. His callous, cold-hearted expression was an oblivion of emotion, a lack of sentiment, as the eroded wreckage of the front door crunched beneath his clad shoes. 

Wordlessly, his deliberate footing resembled the calm before the storm. Only for his exasperation to demolish the plains of tranquility, and his fraughtful steps, morphed into agile strides. He lunged an attack on you first, one of his monstrous hands collecting a bundle of your hair and harshly hurling you off of the aghast mans lap, launching you to the floor with a deafening crack.

His other fist, that was swathed in a fresh coat of crimson that drizzled down his wrist and trickled in fat droplets on the floor, reeled back and popped the man in the bridge of his nose. The sickening crunch of his bones fracturing reverberated around the room, as he howled in agony, defending his face from Kylos merciless fists with his forearms. 

You were rooted to the floor, your palms embroidered with the stained-wood, as you impotently planted yourself there and watched clumps of burgundy leak from his flared nostrils. 

Kylo was looming over him like Satan; prowling on his virtuous, pure prey, with a flauntering halo hovering above the crown of his preys head, as he, engraved his venomous claws into the satiny skin of his victim. 

The minuscule click of a safety-guard breaching open filtered your veins with apprehension, as Kylo tediously, painstakingly slowly, slipped his gun out from the back pocket of his jeans. 

"Ky-"

"Don't." He sneered at you from over his broad shoulder, hissing through barred teeth, as he leisurely cocked his head to face the writhing, mid-aged man. 

"P-please don't k-kill me." He rasped, hiccuping as blood smeared along his twisted features, waving his hands arduously in surrender. 

Kylo laughed, a throaty, sadistic laugh, that caused his square chest to rumble. He rebuked the mans wails, and pleas of remorse, nestling the polished head of his gun to the mans straining temple. 

He hunched forward, his stature low and menacing as he idly folded at the waist, his lips a millimeters width away from the mans quivering ear, as his thumb inched closer and closer to the fatal trigger that would soon splatter the charcoal walls with scarlet.

"I dare you to lay a finger on her again." His words were barbaric, laced with abhorrence, as he whispered them mundanely. He tapped the mans brittle skull twice with the tip of the gun, and he whimpered, his glossy eyes squeezing shut, earning him a snort from Kylo. "Nobody fucking touches my girl."

Pop. 

You flinched at the abrupt, clamorous pop. The mans death was brisk and painless, as his heavy, lifeless body limply collapsed into the couch. His shaggy, pepper hued locks were lapping into a pool of his own sappy blood. His eyes wide in aghast and colorless, his lips parted, as the remnants of his final heaving breath squelched out. 

Kylo swiveled to face you, his dark eyebrows were furrowed, digging a protruding valley of rage into his forehead. He was panting, gulping down a wad of his sticky saliva, before pointing the gun down at you. 

"Get the fuck up," he hissed your name, waving the gun at you blatantly, as you staggered to your feet with turmoil-trembling limbs. "Look at what you've done." 

His blood coated digits feathered through your hair, yanking you by a thick tendril, clawing his nails into your scalp as you seethed and stared at the dead mans body, as he spasmed in a puddle of black blood.

With the nefarious grip of a vice, harsh and lethal, Kylo's hand remained entangled with the knots of your hair, dragging you like a worthless rag-doll, from the lifeless mans apartment and towards his Lamborghini.

He rounded the drivers seat, both hands cupping your ass sharply enough to elicit blood, as he seethed through clenched teeth and hoisted you into the car.

You whined and scrambled across the console, unethically sprawling yourself out, butt planted to the passenger seat and legs spread across the cup holders. 

Through the haze of adrenaline, you arduously observed the fuming steam emitting from his flared nostrils, the thick blood splatters peppering his face and button-up shirt, the tension in his clenched jaw, the boiling vexation accumulating in the black void of his pupils as he slipped into the car with a pained grunt, slamming the door shut. 

The blood dripping from his face coated the black-leather car seats, as he pedaled the gas ferociously. The Lambo roared and screeched as he sped away from the apartment complex.

One of his hands was white-knuckling the leather curve of the steering wheel, the other was feathering through his sweat and blood drenched hair, droplets of both liquids flinging at you as he heaved in palpable rage.

He drove silently for a few minutes. The tires squealed as he flew nearly a hundred miles per hour down the vacant, midnight induced streets. His grueling hostility was enough to thicken the brash air and make it suffocating. His silence spoke horrifying volumes. 

He glared at you, his hand abandoned his hair forcefully and shot out to engulf your throat. With gritted teeth, his eyes darting between the auburn-illuminated street and your vulnerable face, as he jerked you up from your awkward slouching position. You croaked in anguish, his veiny hand constricting the mechanisms of your throat, restricting your oxygen intake by a copious amount. His liquor scented breath wafted into your face like warm jets as he yanked you closer.

His hitched breaths were scorching as they fanned out the tendrils framing your timid face, "You're a naive little slut, you know that?" He spat acidically, raising his eyebrows and tightening his insufferable grip. He glanced at you through his peripherals, "Hm?"

You attempted a meek nod, he scoffed bitterly, poking his inner cheek with his tongue as he concentrated on the bypassing road. He yanked you even closer, and now, your queasy stomach was latching onto the leather console in the center of the vehicle. 

"Not only are you a slut, but you are my slut." He sneered and his thumb pinched your jaw, tilting your head from side to side as he glanced at you with a diabolical, sinful smirk, "And that means nobody else gets to fucking touch you, am I understood?" 

You nodded again feverishly. He shook his head in disapproval and grunted as his hand slid up your throat and clasped your jaw, fingertips piercing your soft skin. You winced, he was fixated on the cities moonlight prosperities beyond the shined windshield.

"I said, am I understood?" He barked, his spit flying through his barred teeth as he brought you infeasibly closer to his blood stained face. 

"Yes, I understand." You whined croakily. 

He hummed contently before he released you forcefully, causing you to stumble backwards. He snickered to himself, an appalled, prickling line of goosebumps slithered up your spine. 

His hand gripped the curve of your hip, he glanced at you, eyes darting up and down your body, "Ride my thigh." His malevolent voice dropped a few husky octaves, laced with desire, and flamboyant domination. 

Your eyebrows knitted together, your pussy fluttered with a buzzing thrill, "Isn't that dangerous?" You whispered bashfully, chewing your bottom lip with concern and trying to push aside your arrousel.

He scowled at you flagrantly enough to slash thousands of incurable wounds into your modest flesh. His taut grip around the wheel tightened, "I said ride my fucking thigh, little girl. Now." He demanded through a grisly shout. 

You shuddered, crawling over the console. He tilted his head by an imperceptible centimeter, peering down at the road, as you straddled one of his muscular thighs and situated yourself.

Your faces were merely a few, scarce inches away. The sheepish nag of your lips, and the innocent bat of your eyelashes, all being consumed by Kylos stoic gaze. His eyes were peaking through the thin drapes of your staticky hair, as the tip of his nose brushed your jaw, his hand kneading your hip and his teeth sinking into the seam of your neck and jaw. 

You instinctively dropped your weight onto his thigh, your cunt pulsing against the clad material of his pants. 

You shivered at the warm sensation of the thick pressure, grappling onto the side of his neck for support as you began grinding your hips slowly, teasing your clit with his thigh and shuddering at the friction between your legs with a soft moan. 

"There you go..." He hummed into your skin, vibrating through your throat as you picked up your speed, pleasure erupting in your bundle of nerves as you bucked your hips into his thigh with quiet moans, eyes fluttering shut. 

The desire overthrew the shame as his daring hand on your hip started guiding you harder into his thigh, he grunted as you moaned lewdly and your legs shook from the pressure on your clit as you rubbed it back and forth against his thigh, your hands messily clawing at his bulky biceps and through his hair as your mouth propped open and your head fell back. 

"How does it feel, hm? Tell daddy." He mumbled in your ear with curiosity, guiding you towards him faster as he nibbled and licked your earlobe. 

"It f-feels so good, mmm." You moaned breathlessly as you began rutting against his thigh, the rocks of your pelvis becoming choppy and unethical as you felt your climax build, the tension in your clit was overwhelmingly delicious.

He briefly removed his hand from your hip, just to plow his palm into your ass, breathily growling into your ear as you lurched forward. Your back instinctively arched as the force of his villainous slap added more pressure to your clit and you rode him relentlessly, smearing your wetness along his pants. 

"Do you think you deserve to cum after what you did back there, whore?" He breathed bitterly, seizing the side of your head and entangling his fingers through your hair, forcing you to tilt your head to face him as you panted and continued working your hips. 

"You are mine. And I won't fucking hesitate to obliterate anybody who doesn't understand that. Am I clear?" He snapped maliciously, your breath hitched as you nodded feverishly. He released your head and your neck cramped as your jaw went slack. You mewled from the tingling sensation between your legs.

"Yes!" You rasped, sputtering nonsense as you neared your peak and mustered up all of your strength to continue grinding. His threatening words were meaningless to you when you were on the brink of finishing. 

"Oh, I'm gonna- I'm gonna cum." You stuttered, voice frail and croaky with your appending orgasm as the pool of warmth in your lower belly thickened and you writhed on top of him.

He removed his other hand from the steering wheel, using one of his knees to hold the wheel steady. Both of his hands gripped your hips, gliding you back and forth swiftly, ramming your clit into his thigh and your body tensed, head lulling forward, your mouth latching onto the fabric of his shirt and your hands clawing at his back. 

"Cum on me, slut." He demanded gravelly, you spasmed and your toes curled, muffling your moans and whimpers of your release as you suckled on his shirt and your hips snapped to ride out your orgasm.

You breathlessly clutched his shirt, wrinkling beneath your tight grip, resting your forehead on his shoulder for a few seconds before he firmly wrapped his arm around your butt and helped you crawl over the console, eyes not averting from the road.

"You're going to pay, tesoro.”


	15. Perfect Disaster

All seven pairs of indignant, serpentine eyes— that were a diminutive variety of menacing blacks, and acidic opal greens— were scorning holes of palpable, brooding dismay into your sheepish frame. Your figure, that was contradictingly petite in comparison to the colossal men, was hunched and heaving, deprived of stability. 

There was a scarlet rash blossoming on your cheeks, and beneath the twine of rope pining your wrists together, as you shifted on your violet-blemished knees, the frisky cement tormenting your brittle joints, coyly peering up at them through your dewy eyelashes. 

In the center of the dark, iniquitous mass of grueling men, was Kylo; for he was the alpha of this trivial, immoral pact. His chest square and shoulders broad, his stubbly chin titled defiantly, his honey-speckled eyes boring through yours, as his Marlboro Red dangled from the corner of his plumps lips.

Ivory tendrils of smoke billowed through the air, swirling in ornate clouds around his consequential features. His dark eyebrows were furrowed, as the tip of the cigarette gleamed auburn, and he blatantly flicked the ashes down upon your timid face. 

An abundance of soot cascaded through the dense air, and accumulated on your scrunched, candied face. Kylo emitted a hoarse chuckle, as the smoke shot out in jagged spurts from his blackening lungs. The leather seat belched as he shifted in it, leaning forward, propping his elbows on his bulky thighs; head tilted in feigned quarry.

"Tell them what you were doing, sweetheart." He murmured huskily, leisurely, narrowing his eyes into keen slits and leaning back into the headrest, smirking diabolically. He gestured towards you with the shriveling bud of his cigarette, an eyebrow cocked as he took another hit. 

All of the men collectively penetrated you with the wrath of their brutal, inquisitive stares. You gulped down your inculpation, yours bashful gaze flickering from each barbaric individual, before they settle on Kylo. 

"I have nothing to say." You sneered, and he only responded with an agile scoff. "You can't control me. I know how much you loved having me here, defenseless and captivated."

Cardo budded in with a raspy howl of amusement, "And you know how much you loved it, bitch." 

Kylo lurched for him with a grizzly growl, his calloused fingers pinching around his earlobe, molting the flesh into a crumbled piece of crimson skin, as Cardo hissed in pain. "Nobody asked you to speak!" He roared into his ear, giving him a brisk shove away, spearing him with the sharp point of his nefarious glare.

You flinched at the contemptible crack in his pungent tone, your eyes widening with trepidation, as he skewed your jaw with his clammy digits and snarled at you. "I won't ask you again. Tell. Them." He seethed through gritted teeth, his nostrils flaring, before he ripped his vice grip free from your face. 

You provoked him with the flagrant roll of your hooding eyes, before swallowing your prudence and complying with a huff. "Not that it's any of your business, but I was planning to lay that guy from the bar and then slit his fucking throat open." You spat the overt words, glaring at all of the men in black, as they shuffled apprehensively and glanced at each other with raised eyebrows. 

"And why would you do that, hm?" Kylo hummed navally, his voice plain and stoic as he stroked his jaw, with his cigarette limply compacted between his fore and middle finger. "Good girls don't go fucking around." 

You scowled, arduously thrashing your wrists in their restraints, "Do I look like a good girl?" You rasped spitefully, "I kill people for a god damn living! That's why I'm in this situation in the first place, all because I followed Organa's orders, without even knowing who the hell to trust!" You shrilled all of the tormenting words, that had been ricocheting around your swollen, discombobulated brain for a treacherous period of sorrowful time. 

Tears were streaming down your flushed cheeks, as a glint of culpability gleamed in all of the mens hooded eyes— but not Kylo's. His cheeks were painted crimson with fury, his hazel irises being blemished and swathed with a coat of raging ice. His breaths were laboring, the flesh seaming his upper lip and the tip of his nose together twitching. 

He plowed straight up from his seat, and you shuffled backwards on your knees, your lips formed into a prominent, quivering pout. "Kylo..." You mumbled haphazardly, as the peril destructing his conflicted soul became boisterously tactile, his features cold and solidified.

Your pulse quickened, as the clack of his leather oxfords squelching on the floor reverberated around the cement walls of the room, and the concrete walls of your mind. 

He folds at his toned waist, his hand engulfing the pulsating expanse of your throat— only, despite that thrill of diabolical temptation in his eyes, his grip wasn't constricting your oxygen intake. It was just a supple warning. That he possessed the ability to revoke you of your breathing privileges. 

His damp, prospering adam's apple bobbed with the force of his swallow. "Kuruk. Trudgen." He beckoned, and two tall, brooding men with diverting chestnut and olive skins stomped over to him. "Spread her legs for me." 

Your eyes bulged tumultuously and you croaked out a refutation; Kylo squeezed your throat, the heel of his palm protruding your thyroid— as the two men emerged from both sides of you, nudging you forward, grappling your thighs with their leather-garbed hands, and hoisting them apart. 

Despite the distress twiddling in your pounding chest; there was a carnal warmth kindling in your lower belly, as the thoughts of the actions to proceed flooded your mind.

"Does my little girl want to be punished for what she did?" He asked salaciously, his thumb grazing your chin, before plucking at your bottom lip. You parted your scarlet lips, welcoming his digits inside as he clicked his tongue in approval and firmly pressed his thumb down on your tongue. 

You hollowed our your cheeks, swirling your tongue around his fingertip, "Yes, daddy." You whispered coyly, as if your reticent words were just a naughty, lubricious secret between you and the sinful silhouette that was bestowing his heinous shadow over you. 

He smirked softly, rewarding you with a nimble pat on the head. "Theres my good girl." He mused, releasing your face from his brash grasp, causing the upper half of your body to plummet to the floor— your breasts and left cheek smushed into the grimy cement as you gasped. 

He trudged his way over to your backside. Kuruk and Trudgen remained perched on both sides of you, their pesty, quarrying hands twitching as they kneaded their fingertips into the plush flesh of your thighs. Kylo's hands explored the curve of your ass, as he hiked the hem of your dress up, revealing your drenched panties and you mewled. 

"You're going to be our girl tonight, little one." A trickle of aspiration, and anguishing lust lined your skin, and he snickered, his cold rings nipping at your flesh as he palmed it. "But before we remind you of what side you belong to, I'm going to remind you who you belong to." 

Before you could muster a meek response, his calloused palm laid a vicious strike upon your ass like the leather of a whip, stinging the skin with a flame of salaciousness. You bleated out a whine, as the silver pendants encompassing his thick fingers embedded crimson marks of submission into your modest flesh. Kuruk and Trudgen tightened their grip, to prevent you from lurching. 

The quarrying, malice etched irises of the four empty-handed men, were scorning holes of humiliation through your numbing skin; as the flame of your candor ignited a scathing wildfire at your core. 

Another strike of possessive fury was bestowed upon your twinging skin, and you only yelped out a whimpering plea, as the flesh was molten into a painting of his large, scarlet handprint. 

And another. And another, as the hands of two agile men pinned you into place, forcing you to adapt to the merciless blows of Kylo Ren's vengeless palm. The flesh was broken and raw, from the impact of his blistering ring. 

"Now," he breathed mundanely. "What is our rule?" He muttered to the crowd of tempted men, as the air thickened with torrid infatuation, and all of them adjusted the throbbing bulges harvesting in their pants. 

"No touching her." They all grumbled, the hoarse palate of deep voices synchronizing monotonously. 

"Good." Kylo beamed with a Mephistophelian grin, his pearly canines gleaming with sinister possessiveness and flamboyance. "If everybody understands, then let's get started." 

~

By the end of the night— that consisted of discarding your morality and feigned saintitude, by devoting your worship to the sadistics of Kylo Ren— you were a blubbering, blemished mess, being speculated by the inquisitive eyes of six sinful men.

Being bruised and bloodied by his dagger, overstimulated by the kneads of his fingers, yours insides being demolished by the pluck and pound of his swollen cock; as all of the men watched, drooling and hissing groans, as they twisted their wrists and pumped their pulsating shafts, until you were shrilling the safeword you and Kylo had secretly established. 

Despite the venereal events being designed as a lecherous, tormenting punishment for the oppositions you committed, Kylo altered from the salacious Devil penetrating you with the satanic hein of his claws, to the guardian angel that enveloped you with the safety of his wings.

"Breathe." He directs navally, scooping you into his broad embrace, scolding the men with a warning glare, as they tucked themselves away and scampered out of the room briskly; noting your palpable distress as you sputtered and nuzzled into the warmth of his chest that expanded with every heaving breath. 

"Shh." He cooed softly into your hair, gingerly plucking the sweat matted tendrils out of your face. He amiably untwined the rope from your barred wrists, and at the impact of freedom, you wrung them out arduously and tucked them beneath your quivering chin. 

Caressing your lower back and swaying you back and forth, you hiccuped on your shallow breaths, relishing in the tenderness of his mechanisms— as they were ultimately contradicting compared to his actions only a few blurred seconds ago. 

He mumbled indiscernible Italian into your forehead, as he pressed a supple kiss; a kiss that bombarded the absurdity of his violence just moments before, a kiss that cured and healed every wound he has inflicted upon your tarnished flesh, for his lips brushed the clammy skin of your forehead and lingered there.

The mollifying plushness of his hoarse voice was raspy, a glint of inculpation nearly cracking in his rambles of reassurance. "I've got you," he murmured begrudgingly, and you nodded into his damp chest, clamoring onto the scrunched up sleeves of his button-up shirt for stabilization. 

Even though you were infuriated with him; not because of his titillating greed, but for the keen blade of his lies that he had scraped you with only weeks ago, sculpting your brittle bones into joints of despair— there was something about the warmth and concupiscence of his colossal body that lured you into his captivating trap. 

And you had the audacity to feel nurtured, tranquilized by his bulky arms as they looped around your shuddering frame and hoisted you off of the cement floor, that was stained with the filth of your repetitious sins. 

The ascent up the stairwell wisped by within a second, as your frail, muffled whimpers ricocheted off of the scalloped brick walls. Kylo was stomping through the auburn illuminated foyer, presumably striding towards your "chamber" from when you were imprisoned in the lethal walls of this criminative base. 

Only, through the murky cloud of befuddlement and euphoria blurring your extorted gaze, you were able to reconcile that the lavish, black-garnered bedroom he was shuffling through was not yours. 

He sprawled your throbbing body on the ginormous mattress encompassing the center of the bedroom, as you squirmed and writhed in the frisky sheets swathing it. 

He wordlessly cradles your shoulder blades in his veiny hands, hoisting your back off of the bed. His fingers fumbled for the zipper of your dress, and he swiftly tugged it down, shimmying you out of it as it latched onto your sweat-soaked limbs. 

He bunched up the crinkling fabric, tossing it to the cold, mosaic flooring beneath his oxfords. You watched through hooded, glossy eyes, as he marched over to the wardrobe adorning the corner of the bedroom. He ransacked it, pillaging through the varieties of clothing, before trudging back over to you with a black Motorhead T-shirt. 

"Up." He commanded earnestly, and you obliged, lifting your arching back off of the bed, allowing him to slip the T-shirt over your tousled head. Your staticky hair was sticking out in multiple diverting directions as he adjusted it on you, the hem drooping to your midthigh.

For a moment, he loomed over your frame with a touch of benevolence toying with his plump lips, as he nibbled on his inner cheek— before he squared his shoulders, hunching his figure, and kneeling his forehead into yours, in a subtle, apologetic gesture.

"Never do something like that to me again, tesoro." He mutters breathily, eyes squeezed tautly shut. "Never fucking again."

"I'm sorry." You whisper softly back.

Instead of responding, he only nods into you with his lips pursed mundanely. He relieved you of the pressure of his body weight, circling your wrist, easing you off of the bed. The hem of his Motorhead shirt cascaded further down your thighs, the collar loose and revealing the glistening skin of your collarbone. 

"Lets have a smoke." He suggested, and you nodded with a lingering side smirk, as you curled your hand around his bicep and wobbled next to him, accompanying him through the silver-trimmed archway that leads to an elevated balcony. 

He lugged you over to the cement barrier margining the secluded balcony; the balcony, that granted you a bewitching view of the alluring nighttime constellation— the luminous white, golden hued stars gleaming in the black mass of the galaxy. 

Before you could protest, his hands found your hips, and he hoisted you up on the barrier. You gasped, as you peered down at the bustling streets of Brooklyn, looping your arm around his to stabilize yourself. His hand was securing your position, by curling around your waist, your back flesh with his swelling chest. 

"Why are you being so... calm?" You asked dubiously, cracking a dreary smile as he popped his cigarette into his mouth and lit it briskly, smirking. 

"I guess you just have that effect on me." He mumbled dully around the slender white base of his cigarette, taking a lengthy drag, before pinching it between his fingers and offering you a puff. 

You stifled a bitter chuckle, tilting your chin and taking a drawl of his cigarette, as ivory tendrils of smoke billowed through the crisp air. "Kylo..." You murmured, your lips unsealing from the cigarette, as hot jets of smoke emitted from your lungs. 

His honey-speckled irises burrowed ripened empathy, as he haphazardly flicked the ashes off of the tip of the cigarette, staring at you attentively as he brought it back to his rouge lips. 

"My world has been a disaster ever since I met you," you admitted, and both of you snickered, as you pondered on all of the salacious events that led you here— on this beautiful balcony, hovering over the compact, scrambling city, as the stars dotting the sky beamed overhead. 

The moons sapphire wrath illuminated the sculpted features of his satin face; the brooding arch of his black eyebrows, the amble curve of his long, romanesque nose, and the shadow of his plump lips forming into a pout. His hazel eyes of melancholy lingered on your lips, his cigarette crammed between his fingers, that dangled loosely from the barrier. 

Without thinking of the self-inflicted consequences of your actions, your fingers trailed along the sharp expanse of his jawline, as you softly smashed your lips into his. His lips parted in astonishment, eloping with yours in slow, passionate harmony, as the hand looped around your waist jeered you closer. 

Your hand was planted on his cheek, as your lips synchronized with patient, virtuous kisses, before you pulled away with a gentle plop. The frisky, midnight breeze fanned out his black coils of hair, wisping them into his pale face, as he raked in the sight of you with an amiable smile touching his lips. 

"But maybe you're a perfect disaster," you mused softly, snatching the cigarette from his fingers and bringing it to your own lips. He hummed in agreement, as you exhaled a thick fog of smoke. He propped his forearms up on the barrier, next to your thighs, slightly hunching over. You rested your temple on his broad shoulder, passing the cigarette back and forth, as you peered up at the whimsical atmosphere and all of the twinkling stars. 

He shakes his head vehemently. "Sarai la mia morte." He whispers through a smirk.


	16. The Real Monster

A familiar voice whispered your name.

Your eyes snapped open. The lights were extinguished, the room was just a void of black. There was a warm body hovering inches away from yours— Kylo Ren's— as he refused to disturb your personal space, or even tamper with his own. It was already a copious step in the right direction for him to be in the same bed as you anyways. 

The voice repeated your name, hushed and demanding, and this time you staggered into a sitting position. The sapphire moonlight cascaded through the window, obscuring your vision, as it fabricates ominous shadows and silhouettes in every crevice of the room. 

The voice couldn't belong to the grumbling, snoozing man next to you. This voice was feathery-light and earnest, unlike Kylo's coarse, baritone voice. This voice belonged to someone that shouldn't be here. 

You glanced down at Kylo with a ripple surfacing in your brow. The moon bestowed upon his grave face perfectly. Illuminating the natural glow of his damp forehead, outlining his romanesque nose, inclinating his rouge lips that quivered softly as he dreamt. His raven locks were coiled and tousled, matting to his twitching face and splaying out on his pillow. His chest heaved in a tranquil rise and fall, one hand resting on his abdomen, the other limply curled around your inner thigh.

"What are you doing here?" You whispered into the darkness, narrowing your eyes, as you reluctantly slipped out from beneath Kylo's touch. 

He stirred nimbly, huffing through his nose and turning his head away, his hand sinking into the mattress. You chewed on your bottom lip apprehensively, observing his every movement intently, as you creeped off of the bed slowly. 

"I came to help you." The voice uttered, and you stilled, your feet rooting to the floor in trepidation when Poe emerged from the shadowy corner of the room, his demeanor calm and earnest. 

"I don't need your help." You seethed through a strained breath, defensively crossing your arms. "You should get out of here. It's not safe for you."

Poe scoffed, barring his teeth together, his weight shifting to one foot as he glowered at Kylo— who was still intimidating and brawny even in his most tranquil state— before glaring back at you. 

"And it's safe for you?" He drawled bitterly, his eyes glazed over with malice and disbelief. "Look at the man you're sharing a bed with." 

The urge to defend and justify his nefarious actions quaked inside of you, but you stifle the craving to explode. "Yes, it is safe for me." You started peacefully, gritting your teeth to mollify your annoyance. "He keeps me safe from people like you— who lie to me." 

Poe frowned, although his features were still masqueraded with a mask of acidity. "What I did was wrong," he admitted unapologetically, gesturing with his hands in defense. "I know that it will be hard for me to regain your trust, but you have to remember who the enemy is here. Don't forget what you stand for." 

Kylo grumbled breathily, his head tilting by a minuscule, before he relaxed in his new position. Your heart was stammering in your chest with a mixture of inculpation and anger. The last thing you wanted was for this to end in another bloody disaster, and you knew that was the only possible outcome of this conversation if Kylo happened to wake up. 

"Let's go outside." You suggested, waving him over to the balcony. You brashly nudged the door open, Poe trotted past you nearly prudently, situating himself into a seat as you softly latched the door shut. 

"First of all," you started, your voice raised by just an ounce. "I don't stand for anything or anyone other than myself anymore." You flashed him a scolding look when he parted his lips to intervene. "Devoting myself to a side has done nothing. Both sides, you and Kylo, just lie to me and find ways to lure me back in. It's not going to work anymore." 

Poe contemplated your words of independence and liberation, an eyebrow cocked. Now that the city lights were accentuating his features, you could see the purple, puffy ring accumulating around one of his brown eyes. Paired with blemishes and scratches that peppered his face. 

"Clearly your devoted to him," he pointed at the window aggressively, snarling with flared nostrils. "You wouldn't be here if not." 

You only shrugged, grappling with the box of cigarettes that Kylo kept stashed behind a pillar on the balcony. You popped one out, lighting it briskly, taking an agile puff. 

"Thats because he... cares about me." You exhaled ivory tendrils of smoke solemnly, peering off the balcony, consuming the sight of the bustling city that never sleeps. "He has odd ways of showing it, but I've already seen his facade crumble, and I've had a peak at the generosity that beats behind it. It's too late for me to give up on him now." 

Poe sprung up from his seat, "Come on... I care about you!" He stated, his voice croaking with exasperation. "I love you. You know this. You're going to give up on me, before you give up on that monster?" 

A devious smile toyed with your lips, as you listened to him blabber and whine. You took another hit of your cigarette, clouds of smoke billowing in the cold air. 

"Can't you see how evil he is?" He rasped, his eyebrows crinkling together. 

"Of course I do." You flagrantly giggled, shaking your head softly. "He may be a monster, but he's my monster. I'm stuck with him. And I'm starting to understand that I'm fine with that."

Poe grimaced, his shoulders slouching in defeat. His fingers were trembling as he skimmed them through his curls. 

"I lost Finn, and now I've lost you too." His voice was raspy with poignance. He somberly dropped his gaze to his lap, and a ping of guilt rippled through you, only to evaporate when you recollected everything he has stowed upon you.

"I've lost everything Poe!" You bleated, screaming the words in a slurred, distraught series of spite. "My parents. You. The Resistance!" You lowered your voice, "I almost lost my life because of Finn. He tried to kill me, and there's no doubt in my mind that you were involved with that." 

He opened his mouth to protest, his lips twisted into a scowl, "Really?" He hissed, his eyes wide and aghast. "You remember that box Finn left on your door step? The one with a fucking bomb? The one I saved you from?" 

The door plummeted open before you could respond. The boisterous thud as the handle pounded into the glass caused you and Poe to both jolt and recoil. Kylo plowed through the threshold, pointing his gun straight at Poe. His demeanor was stoic, his chest heaving slightly in distress, his dark main untamed and wildly framing his brooding face. 

His jaw was clenched, the tendons in his face straining, "Who the fuck do you think you are speaking to her like that?" He barked the words, spit launching from his barred teeth, his tone mundane and hoarse. His stature was cumbersome, broad and defiant.

Poe was waving his hands in fervent defense, his blown eyes darting from you, to the gun that was aiming for his forehead. "Put the gun down Ren, we can talk about this civilly... just put it—"

He cocked the gun, his eyes trained on Poe in hazardous intent. "You're not going to just step into my dominion and order me around, Dameron." He mused the words monotonously, disregarding your presence entirely. 

You were frozen. Your blood ran cold, your veins being pumped with icy disdain. You smashed the bud of your cigarette into the barrier margining the balcony, watching them heedfully. 

"Now get out of my sight, before I shoot you straight in the back of your fucking head." He growled the malevolent threat, his adam's apple bobbing with the force of his swallow. 

And then, the unexpected happened. 

Poe smirked. 

Kylo's steel facade of vexation never relented nor faltered, but the shift in his stance made his bewilderment blatant. 

"Shoot me where I stand," he retorted calmly, pursing his lips prudently and lowering his hands to his side. "That won't stop the Resistance from killing you and all of your people, Ren." 

Then it dawned on Kylo, the keeper of immorality himself— Poe didn't show up alone.

Just when realization struck him like a harsh slap to the conscious, a fragment of the building combusted, a heap of flames bursting and swallowing the bricks, as an abrupt explosion sent all of you plummeting and shrilling screams. 

Your body was slammed into the crumbling barrier of the balcony, an abundance of hefty fog clouding your vision, as you heaved and inhaled the scent of smoke and eroded metal. There were loud pops of launching bullets and grizzly curses. Your ears were ringing, blood drizzling down your forehead, as a gash embedded into your scalp. 

"Kylo?" You rasped, choking on your own breaths, as the flames crackled and consumed every inch of the building. "Ky?"

You crawled through the rubble peppering the floor, shoving pieces of random wreckage out of your way, as your head pounded in agony. Everything was just a discombobulating blur. There were flames abolishing every surface of the building, and the distant shouts lingered. 

Your weakened limbs collapsed, your sore body crashing into the floor, as tears and blood streamed down your flushed cheeks. Ash accumulated on your eyelashes as they fluttered meekly, your breaths wafting in the form of pants. 

And then, a deep, navally voice bellowed your name croakily. You clutched your positively injured abdomen, staggering into a brittle crouching position, peering through the heaps of smoke oxidizing the stale air. 

Kylo was limping, clutching his wounded hip, as he trudged towards you with determined, agile strides. He pummeled to his knees in front of you, feverishly cupping both of your cheeks, his rough, trembling thumbs brushing your tears away, as he stared at you attentively.

You nestled into the warmth of his calloused palms, both of you panting and blubbering. He caressed your cheeks frenetically, his nostrils flaring, his honey-speckled eyes glossy and bloodshot, his lips quivering. Soot was flaking in his dark, tousled locks, blood smearing all along his tense face, sweat beading on his temples. Your eyes heedfully darted to his hip and you gasped, as blood trickled from the hem of his button up shirt, that was lapping to the hole piercing his side. 

He patted your cheek softly, "Hey, hey. Look at me." He commanded earnestly, and you released a choked sob, your eyes straying away from his as he pats your cheek slightly harder. "Look at me. I'm going to be fine."

He reassured gingerly, his husky voice low and oddly pacified. Your breath hitched, as one of his hands cradled the back of your head, his fingers benignly threading through your tangled hair. "We have to get you out of here." He breathed urgently, briskly tugging you into an embrace, his bulky arms holding your face dearly to his chest. 

You stuttered on your words. The tip of your tongue was hot with inclination, yearning to speak, only the shock prevented you from uttering a single word. He hushed you consolingly, his clammy digits toying with your hair. His plump lips shakily pressed a pliant kiss to your scalp, and your eyes sealed shut in response to the gentleness of his lips, eliciting another tear to stroll down your cheek.

"Can you walk?" He grumbled into your nappy hair, stroking it out of your face and releasing you, his hand stabilizing you by your arm. 

"Y-yes." You rambled, nodding and blinking away tears. "Let me help you up." 

You looped his broad arm around your neck, hoisting him up as he grunts and claws at your waist for support. "Come on, we can do this." You murmured encouragingly, your voice frail and shaky from your excursions. 

"No," he seethed, sputtering another grunt, easing off of you and applying pressure to his wound. "You need to go, I'll only hold you back. I'm going to find Dameron." 

You shook your head in a frenzy, your eyebrows weaving together as you interlock your fingers with his and attempt to tug him with you. "I'm not leaving you up here... we don't have much time." You whined pleadingly, glancing around in turmoil as chunks of the building crumbled, and flames swathed the chipping bricks. 

Cardo and Vicrul dash through the cracking, fragmented doorframe, shards of glass crunching beneath their boots as they rushed over to you and Kylo. 

"Shit!" Cardo hissed, tumbling over the piles of rubble that had accumulated on the floor, both of them darting around the flames speckling the balcony. "Are you two okay?" 

Kylo nodded, ripping his hand away from yours and cocking his head towards the heaving, barely scathed duo. "Take her. Get her out of here." He ordered breathily, swallowing the sappy lump in his throat, his fist curling around the handle of his gun. 

"What? No!" You protested, clamoring onto his arm, only for Vicrul to peel you away from his body. "Wait, no, please. Come with us." 

He extended his arm, his thumb stroking your bottom lip, a somber smile tugging at his lips. "Go. Get out of here for me, okay?" His dark eyebrows rose in earnest, eyes glazed over with fidelity and sadness. 

"You can't stay up here!" You exclaimed incredulously, your fingers curling around his wrist, holding his clammy hand to your cheek. "Just come on..." 

His jaw clenched, him and Cardo exchanging a subdued look, both of them nodding at one another. Kylo glanced at you, his exasperated breaths spilling from his bloodied lips, before he swiveling around and jogged through the haze of fog, wobbling from his injured hip. At the same time, Cardo and Vicrul were dragging you away as you wailed in agony.

"Kylo, stop!" You bleated, hiccuping on your breath, snorting in air as tears carved rivers of lethargy into your ruby cheeks. 

Once you reached the innards of the decaying building, your limbs had grown fatigued beyond belief, and you chose to stop fighting their aid. They managed to carry you down two flights of stairs, as you sobbed and whined from the pain embellishing in your head. 

Ap'lek was hunched over in the armory when you fervently strolled past it, the pop of bullets ringing in your ears and reverberating around the doused walls as he aimed for a squadron of Resistance vigilantes that you once referred to as work peers. One of his brothers, Kuruk, was lapping to the floor in a puddle of blood and you stifled a scream at the sight of his lifeless body. He was the peacekeeper out of the brothers, and although he was quiet, you always admired his tranquility.

Everything ticked by in a hazardous millisecond. You escaped the building, smoke billowing through the air, sirens wailing off in the distance. Cardo stuffed you into the backseat of one of the Cadillacs, cramming himself into the seat next to you, as Vicrul hopped into the drivers seat and brashly started the engine. 

The other Cadillac was parked a decent distance ahead, Trudgen and Ushar sprinting out of the rumbling vehicle and entering the building, loading up their guns as they stormed through the once elevated entrance. 

Cardo vigorously rubbed his face, ridding the clusters of sweat that dampened his forehead and cheeks. All three of you panted, the sounds of your hitching breaths filtering the air inside of the car. The Motorhead shirt that Kylo loaned you was drenched in blood and ash, your bare legs soaked in sweat, your white socks tethered and torn. 

"Let me see your head." Cardo sighed, pursing his lips and ladling your skull in his gloved hands as you winced. He fidgeted with the gash in your head relentlessly, softly plucking out shards of glass from your scalp, grimacing as he watched the blood gush down your face. "God dammit!" 

You swatted his hands away, only for him to grapple you harder, his mechanisms demanding and salient. "Look!" He shook you exuberantly, shouting the words into your face as you blinked at him with wide eyes. "I promised him that I would take care of you if he ever couldn't. You need to let me help you." 

You reluctantly surrendered, your hands limply folding in your lap, as you granted him a leisure, understanding nod. He nodded curtly back, lugging shards out of your head as you stifled croaky yelps. Your nails were embedding into the leather seats beneath you, as Cardo cursed and tossed the shards to the floor. 

He untucked a black handkerchief from the pocket of his jacket, gingerly dabbing your wounds clean, as you sniffled and stared at the building as it crumbled into ruins. You wrung out your wrists, your brain warped with a thousand morbid thoughts and flashbacks of the explosion that had just occurred. 

"Do you think Kylo will be okay?" You asked meekly, your eyes gleaming with hope as you stared at Cardo and swallowed. 

Vicrul shifted in the front seat, his hands aggressively squeezing the curve of the wheel, his stature rigid and alert. Cardo glanced at him in the rear-view mirror before supplying you with a meaningful nod.

"Yes." He uttered gravely, swiping the fibers of glass off of your forehead, as you observed him through hooded eyes. "He has something to come back to now. He will do whatever it takes to make it out of there." 

His eyes connected with yours somberly. A crestfallen, grim smirk splayed on his chapped lips, as he slowed his movements and bored his grieving gaze through yours. His features were prominent with uncertainty, despite the subdued tone he reassured you in. 

You were that something. 

"W-we should go back for him," you interjected the dire moment of silence, rambling the words and blinking away tears. "He may need our help." 

You abruptly sat up, making an attempt to scoot towards the door, only for Cardo to simply blockade you from slipping out. "No." He reprimanded firmly, his hands clasping your biceps and giving you a subtle nudge away. "Let him handle this. He can take care of himself." 

You glared at him, sulking in silence. Your heart was twinging with fear, as the malevolent pops of the guns firing ricocheted off of the surrounding buildings, where pedestrians shouted and called for help as the sight of the scorning building burned behind their retinas.

Just when your heart started to beat at a normal pace again, the three remaining men stumbled out of the building, all of them clamoring onto Kylo— and his unconscious frame. His head was lulling to the side, his face brooding and stiff, blood gushing from the wound on his hip, and now the bullet hole piercing his lower thigh and the graze of a bullet on his earlobe. 

You gasped, crawling across Cardos lap and leaping for the door, only for him to pin you back. He glowered your name, "Don't fucking try it." His voice was thick with understanding, as you struggled and thrashed in his arms.

"Cardo, just let her go." Vicrul insisted benignly, flashing you an empathetic look from over his shoulder, and you smiled at him gratefully. 

Cardos guard reluctantly let down, as he shook his head sternly. "I promised him I would—"

You popped the latch open, staggering out of the car, dashing towards the other Cadillac that Kylo's body was being crammed into. Cardo shouted for you, only for Vicrul to coax him out of chasing after you. 

You sprinted to the opposite backdoor as they shoved him through the other. You slipped into the seat, helping them lug him into the back, as he grunted and limply flopped around into whatever position you molded him into. 

His body was sprawled out on the backseat, his long legs hunched and compacted into the door, as you turned and lifted up his head to rest it in your lap. You peered down at him, stroking his sweaty tendrils out of his bruised face, smoothing your palm over his torrid forehead. You cooed softly, as his eyelids flickered in disdain, and deep huffs of anguish died in the back of his throat. 

Two men hopped into the front seat, one of them climbed into the trunk. The Cadillac sped off agilely, the engine sputtering and the transmission slipping due to the speed that the vehicle had taken off. 

One of your hands slithered down his torso, exploring his hip, applying firm pressure to the gaping wound. The other continued to caress his scalp and skim through his hair. You loomed over his frame, your lips ghosting his wounded ear— that now matched the one he gave you all that time ago after a game of Russian-roulette gone wrong. 

You whispered, "Hold on for me."

You softly hummed your favorite tunes by Lana into his ear, reminiscing on the way he admitted to enjoying her music. You swayed him back and forth, your fingers feathering through his hair, blood lapping up on your digits as it rapidly flows from his wound. 

"Where are we going?" Ap'lek asked breathily from the back of the Cadillac, his skin coated in splatters of blood. 

"Out of state, preferably." Trudgen rasped, glancing at you as you cradled and lulled the nefarious Kylo Ren as if he was just an innocent child. His heart admittedly warmed at the sight. "If the Fire Department finds any remnants of the base left back there, we're better off far from here." 

You were drowning out their conversation, as you focused on comforting Kylo, who is unconscious anyways— or he was.

His calloused hand that was doused in dried blood weakly found yours, resting on the hand that was applying pressure to his wound. You perked up at this, your face lifting to vertically hover over his. 

His eyes fluttered open— the whiskey-hazel that once lingered was now fogged over with a hazy white. His pupils were shaking, as his eyes darted from both of yours, failing to settle on one. Even in the weakest of states, he managed to form a faltering, prudent smirk. 

His bloody digits curled around one of yours, feebly lifting your hand and settling it on his chest instead of his hip. He grunted, his lips desperately puckering in a dreary attempt to catch your lips with his. You supply kissed him from upside down, and his lips eagerly eloped with yours, as he mustered up all of his energy to devote himself to the sweet kiss. 

When your lips detached, his head sunk deeper into your lap, his grasp tightening around your hand. Your eyebrows knitted together when the light in his eyes flickered and started to fade, that glint of passion that always gleamed in his honey irises dulling out. You patted his cheek vigorously, your breaths quickening.

"Hey, hey." You cooed gingerly, scooping up his head and pressing a kiss into his greasy forehead. "Stay with me, please, Kylo." 

His eyebrows raised, his eyes rolling and his eyelashes wavering, as he attempted to keep his blackening gaze on you. The panic settled in when his jaw started to slack, his eyelids brashly seaming together, a hitched breath escaping his nostrils.

"Where is the next hospital?" You hollered, the pain in your voice tactile as you stifled a sob, continuously patting his cheeks to vitalize him.

Ushar studied the road attentively, as Trudgen scanned the road signs. "Sixteen miles." He grimaced, and you had to suppress another wail of defeat, as Kylo stilled on top of you. 

"Fuck! No!" The tears returned, streaming down your cheeks and splashing into his face in salty droplets, as you unbuttoned his shirt with trembling fingers. You shucked it off of him, grunting and sputtering, as you used your pint up fright to rip it off of him. 

"Ap'lek, can I have a hand?" You asked through a strained cry, and he nodded dolefully, hoisting Kylo's waist off of the seat as you wrapped his shirt around the wound, cinching the sleeves tautly. You then unfolded the handkerchief that Cardo had accidentally lent you, wiping his scathed ear clean, wiping the blood from his face as you sobbed in defeat. 

Ap'lek grappled with the tie that was garnering his now dismantled suit, ripping it off of himself, using it to secure the hole piercing Kylo's thigh. You took your time on the crevices of his hands, as you slipped the rag between his grimed fingers, over the tattoos scattered around his knuckles, under the pooch of his nails. 

"I'm not going to lose you." You promised loud enough for everybody in the car to hear, as all of them wordlessly sulked and pitied the situation at hand. "I lost everything once, and I'm not going to lose my everything again."

You murmured the words into his forehead. Kylo Ren, although cruel and menacing, was the only person in this world that you had left for reliance and nurturing. You've lost everybody you've ever loved in the same essence that you could plausibly lose him in this moment. A human soul as fragile as yours should not be forced to harbor this much heartbreak and anguish. Loss and suffering. 

Your palm caressed his chest, freezing on his peck when you couldn't feel his pulse. Your intestines twined into a jumbled bushel of panic, nausea bubbling in your gut. 

"Speed up... we need to get to that hospital now, please!" You sobbed.


	17. Anarchic Love

The air within the hospital was condensed and cold. The stale scent of antiseptics lingered. The nectary smell of Petunias flourished the compact space, as the flowers posted on the bedside table of the patient neighboring Kylo shriveled and curled in dehydration. 

Every hospital harbored a desolating atmosphere. No matter the sector you were in. The trauma department for a catastrophic accident. The cancer center for unoptimal treatments. The urgent care, just to bandage up a minor chafe of skin. All of them were hefty with a dejecting aroma, that you loathed.

The prominent stench of cots and narcotics, and the sight of faithless families synchronizing to cherish the last breath of a loved one, were all wounding tokens to the past. The traumatic past that loomed over you like a heinous ghoul as you sunk into the chair plastered to the side of Kylo's bed.

A thin, nearly translucent pair of rubber drapes separated his designated area of treatment from the others that were in a proximity that were too close for comfort. Way beyond comfort, for Kylo. His desire for space and solitude were unfulfilled, his thirst for his own dominion exceeding the boundaries of the hospitals limits. 

He was conscious enough to render his thoughts and needs, not without broadcasting his hatred for his condition to every nurse and medic, though. For being a grown man— and a powerfully perverse one at that— he was as stubborn as a mule. He hissed and barked out complaints to every nurse that indulged him with an IV needle to the arm, or supplied him a handful of painkillers. 

"Sir." The nurse inhaled a heap of air, smoothing out the crisp scrubs cladding her stout legs. "You need fresh bandages. They will get infected if they're not tended to immediately." 

Kylo glowered at her, waving a hand of dismissal, shifting in his cot— that was diminutive, small in comparison to his monstrous frame. 

"I'll be fine." He grunted, his dreary features molding into a stone of apathy. "I'm not scared of a little infection." 

You rolled your eyes, stifling a sigh, kneading your forehead in annoyance. The nurse glanced at you pleadingly, her eyebrows woven together apprehensively, as you shrugged. 

"Sir," she bit through gritted teeth, her candied smile faltering, as she outstretched her hand to grapple with the bandage. "Infections are deadly, especially with one of the bullets being lodged into your abdomen."

To no avail, he swatted her hand away, and she chirped out a shocked gasp. He lethargically gestured to his left ribcage, his features bleak and cold, as he jabbed the area for emphasis.

"I've had one stuck here for six years, and I'm fucking alive aren't I?" He growled earnestly.

It was embarrassing to be associated with him in this moment, as the nurse scoffed and glared at you with a scowl that translated her aggravation. Her eyes loitered on yours, before slowly raking in the sight of his stoic face, that was trained on her with a look of malice. 

She cleared her throat, arduously plucking supplies off of the medical cart that wheeled at his side, placing down the bandages and gauze she sauntered into the room with.

"If you wish to tend to your own wounds, the supplies are right there." She swallowed the abhorrence that laced her small voice. "I'll be back to check on you soon. I'll bring some more meds, too." 

Her eyes flickered to the monitor that habilitated the proof of his already-swift recovery. With another brief scan of his irritable state, she recorded her judgement on her clipboard and departed the enclosed space, tightly drawling the drapes shut behind her. 

Once she was gone, and the clatter of tools and soft spoken murmurs emanated from the opposite side of the tarp, you sprung up out of your seat and plopped down on the edge of Kylo's cot, flashing him a ridiculed glare. 

His eyes shifted to you, only to narrow, and dart back to the mesh lining of the fabric-esque walls. His big, tattooed hands were clasped, long fingers interlocked and twiddling together calmly across his abdomen. 

"Are you serious?" You mused incredulously, cocking a brow at him. 

A pique of defense flickered in his golden irises, that were glossy and bloodshot with fatigue. "What?" He snapped, his stern aptitude unrelenting, as he chewed on his inner cheek forcefully enough to elicit blood on the tip of his tongue.

"Let someone take care of you for once." You commanded softly, your finger tracing ornate patterns into the sheet draped across his cumbersome frame. "You're being stubborn."

His jaw clenched, the veins in his neck protruding. His adam's apple bobbed as he angled his chin towards the ceiling, sighing monotonously. He disregarded your words, sulking and grumbling snark under his breath. 

For a moment, you just observed his exhorted persona and his placated enigma. The leisure rise and fall of his chest, that was still clad in his soiled dress-shirt, only the buttons were unclasped to allow the nurses access to his wounds and dismantled abdomen. 

The ghoulishly pale surface of his skin glistened like freshly fallen snow beneath the suns blue-hued glow. The luminescent light fixture overhead conjured beads of sweat along his clavicle, and the seam where his dark main and smooth forehead corresponded. 

There was a raw, crimson scar burrowing into the nook of his underbrow, carving a gash similar to the grand canyon— winding and rigid— all the way down to his collarbone. Before the nurses cleansed his face of the blood that tarnished it, you couldn't even scout the scar out; now it was the emblem of tonight's havoc, as blatant and disturbing as ever. 

This was all real. The building was gone. It had crumbled into ruins, along with the valuables and rare weaponry that it once stored. The Resistance had discovered that you were the Lord of crimes weakness— using you as a conduit to the hose they curated to demolish the flame that was Kylo Ren. It was all real, it was all happening. 

Was your infatuation with the diabolical man himself worth all of this destruction? 

The almighty Kylo Ren and his nefarious men proved to be a mystery to you even after the idle, but consequential time you spent with them at their base. You have hardly obtained a thing about Kylo Ren— other than the knowledge that a sense of gratification slithered into his conscious with every ounce of you he tantalized with his sadistic pleasures and conniving mechanisms. 

The two of you are an abomination. A treacherous, toxic pair. There was no love to refurbish all that was broken. There were only bruises, and fights, and making amends with your enemy by engaging in carnal, erotic acts. Lust was the only thing that pieced you two together, because although intoxicatingly sweet, it was only an abyss that sucked in all the negative and coaxed it with a layer of positivity. 

No — you have never speculated that look of endearment in his eyes — you've only watched in terror as they scorned with a flame of possession, scrutinizing your every mistake under his reign. Yes — those caresses and subtle gestures of hospitality were ones that enraptured you deeper into his trap — but those conceding acts were only deceit, because Kylo couldn't bare to have his little toy go broken before he got his full use out of it.

He never wanted you as a part of his malevolent ploys. He never wanted you as a convict of his confidential, lethal schemes. Originally all he wanted was to shoot, dismember, then bag you, and retrieve the cash he was promised in exchange for your elimination. 

Because unbeknownst to you: you were his target all along. Only he prolonged your termination by tempting and seducing you. Now, his feelings ranged beyond venereal sadism, and his plan was floating around aimlessly in murky waters. 

That first night when he met you, his chest ached and sparked like a firecracker of inclination. The way your hips swayed with each deliberate stride, the way you managed to mimic his cunning smirk with your sultry-painted lips. The way you carried your candied, but equally as callous disposition, allured him. 

Instead of your beauty entrancing him and submissively knocking him to his knees, your sass only pumped him full of abhorrence and his desire for wickedly venereal things. His sadistic tendencies overthrew the power of his moral compass, that was already pointing in the direction of corruption and cruelty. 

He wanted to destroy you— strip you bare of all that aspiration and loyalty that you wielded for the loathsome Resistance— and rebrand you with the hein of his ravenous claws. He wanted your flesh: the supple, soft flesh, that was cloaked by designer clothing and garbed in metaphorically steadfast coats. 

He wanted the flesh that spilled from the top of your luxurious dresses to belong to his mouth, he wanted the plumpness of your breasts to mold into the shape of his sharp canines. He wanted your nipples to pucker in response to the warmth of his whiskey-breath. He wanted the buds to swell in proclivity, when his lips ghosted them. He wanted the marks and welts inflicted by his merciless teeth to be embedded into your modest areas for eternity. 

He wanted all of you to himself, and even more so when your candor slipped and your facade came crashing down; revealing that naughty part of you that was just as amorous and sensually driven. 

Which leads to your predicament now. 

It was appalling— that you were sitting on the edge of your enemies cot, your core taut with desolation and fear, fear of losing the man that cut all the cords wiring your sanity together. Bliss was surfacing in tight knots in your gut, a sensation that you hoped was empathy, and nothing more. 

If it were to be love: it would be anarchic love, detrimental and fatal. The kind of love that thrives off of pain, and feeds off of malignant manipulation. A vessel that sprouts in every area that pleasure can be pinpointed upon the lust-bound body, ballooning and swelling to be a tumor that throbs perniciously and controls every aspect of your life. The tumor is sustained by every infliction of dangerous affection made by the hands of Kylo Ren. 

If it were love, it would be the love that hurts so good, that it needs to be detained. Love that requires shackles, and a whip to tame it. Love that whimpers, and bleeds, and dies all the same. If it was love, it would be the death of you, and all things similar. 

It was already killing him softly. His old conduct was callous, uncharitable and cutthroat, and now it was spilling out of him with every fiber he emitted through his nostrils. As if his disposition was bound to the blood that gushed from his wounds. Like his body parts united to dislocate his immoral behavior. 

His apathy would be roped to him forever, regardless of the blood he loses, or the amount of slashes that tunnel his skin. He would forever be scarred by the fate that Snoke had curated for him. Lust would never spin him off of his cruel tracks. 

"May I?" You asked meekly, as you outstretched your hand to reach for the gauze.

He hesitated, teeth barred, before he nodded curtly and shifted under the sheets. 

You smiled gratefully, scooping up the gauze and nestling yourself with his side. Looming over him gingerly, avoiding applying pressure to his frame, as you surveyed his red scar. 

His eyes were locked on yours attentively, scrutinizing your every mechanism. You softly traced the puffy skin matting to the scar, "Does this hurt?" You whispered. He supplied you with a quiet grunt of discomfort. 

You frowned, finger subconsciously dancing across his satin skin. You plucked the chapped, blemished plushness of his bottom lip, dragging the pink flesh out, as he stared at you blankly. There was blood lapping to his upper lip, and you retrieve a piece of disposable cloth from the rack to tend to the blood that lingered on his tired face. 

You lifted the cloth to swipe the blood clean, only for his large hand to circle your wrist and gingerly urge your hand away. His eyes were dark and swollen, boring through yours, as he weakly lifted his other hand to tangle in your hair and force your lips to his own. 

Your tongues clashed together in a deep, leisure, passionate rhythm, as he grunted at the impact of your soft lips meeting his bruised ones. His fingers raked through your hair, cradling your skull, as he delved his face into yours and deepened the kiss. 

You found yourself straddling his waist. Lips molding together lecherously, quick breaths spewing from your nostrils, as his kiss grew brasher and more commanding. 

You dropped your weight onto his wounded abdomen and he groaned hoarsely into your lips— the guttural sound reverberated throughout your mouth like a symphony of pleasure. 

His other hand snakes up your torso, caressing your waist, grappling on your breast. He groped and squeezed, prying it with his hand as you let out a low moan into his mouth and arched your back to prod your breast deeper into his carnal clutch. 

He broke free from the kiss, working arduously at peeling your shirt off of your body. Your breaths were torrid, fanning out his raven locks, as he pawed at both of your breasts. You purred appreciatively, grinding into his bulge as he tantalized you with the kneads of his calloused palms. 

His hands looped around your back briefly to unclasp your bra. It tumbled to your stomach, sliding down your bodies, as he massaged your breast harder, attacking the other with his mouth. 

Your head fell back with a brisk moan, hands planted on his brawny chest, as he suckled on your nipple and traced his tongue along the puckering bud. The wires of his IV brushed your skin as he nearly jerked them out of his arm, hand pawing at your breast roughly. He growled darkly into the flesh, licking and lapping his own spit, sucking as if your tit was his last meal. 

"Fuck..." You mewled, one hand wrapping around his back, steadying him as he leers into a sitting position. He suppressed a grunt as the hole in his abdomen chafes against your body, his eyelashes fluttering into your skin.

He nipped at your breast and you squeaked, feeling his pulsating cock prodding at your clothed entrance through the thin fabric of his sheet. His lips trailed sticky, hungry kisses up to your neck, biting and snagging as you whimper. 

Your hand slithered down your compressed bodies, nudging the sheet away, fisting his hard length in your palm as he stifled a groan into your throat. Kissing and sucking welts, marking his prized territory. The monitor beeped exuberantly as his heart rate increased.

You angled your hips up, pumping his shaft nimbly as you guided the tip to your entrance. You moaned softly as you smear his precum up and down your slit. You teased yourself only for a moment, before sinking down onto his throbbing red cock. 

You gasped and clawed at his back, as he hissed in pleasure, and raked his own nails into your back: embedding the red ribbons of his fury in the form of scratches upon your flesh.

"That's right." He purred ominously, breath hitching. "Take my cock, little one. Take all of it.... mhm." 

You shuddered and rocked your pelvis into him agilely as he managed powerful thrusts up into your core. Your walls squeeze and condense his cock, and he sputters a curse through gritted teeth as he pounds up into you, and you aid him by riding his dick at a temperate speed. 

Both of you were scarring the others skin with emblems of your animalistic desire, pawing and clamoring onto the others flesh, as he obliterated your insides and pounded into you ferociously, your bodies bouncing robustly. You hips colliding, your walls embracing and clenching at his cock as it slammed into your cervix mercilessly.

You sputtered a series of moans, disregarding the fact that only a drape barricaded you from the hospitals staff. Kylo's low groans and deep rasps synchronized with your slurs, as your faces flush red and your bodies convulse.

His mouth managed to catch onto your bouncing breast, his face smushed into your cleavage as he suckled with determination and pounded into you infeasibly harder. You bloodied his back by digging your fingertips into the slab of muscle, a wanton moan cracking past your lips. 

"Fucking cum on my cock." He demanded breathily, lips sealing around your bud and narking at it maliciously. He sneered, "I want to feel you come undone..." 

You complied to his order without haste, your fingers quivering as they raked through his hair, your strained moan being suppressed as you pressed your lips into the top of his head, that bobbed as he worked on your nipple. Your juices spewed from your core and coated his cock, the sticky fap of your orgasm ricocheted around the compact room.

He continued fucking you as you went limp and dangled over his frame, hands rooted to his broad shoulders as you moaned softly and defeatedly. Breaths trembling and hitching as he thrusted rabidly.

"Whose cunt is this?" He barked, his hands clawing down your back and fondling with your ass, groping and kneading. 

"Y-yours..." You rasped through a hitched breath, seizing random parts of his body for stability, as he twitched inside of you. "It's yours, Kylo."

He growled profoundly, his peak rising. "Turn around." He demanded.

You obliged without bewilderment, sliding off of his cock and swiveling around. Your back was flush with his chest as you eased yourself back down, wincing as his cock instantly plows into you from below, striking your overstimulated areas. 

His breaths were warm and titillating in your ear, as your bodies rocked in rhythm, his plump lips ghosting your earlobe. His large hand feathered through your hair and craned your head back, forcing your chin to angle towards the ceiling, as you choked on a moan and met his thrusts.

The heart monitor was screeching and chiming boisterously now, as sweat accumulated on the crevices of your bodies. He ripped the IVs out of his arms belligerently, shucking the tethered cords and tubes to the floor. His stamina was regaining by the second, as his muscles spasm with lechery. 

Using the strength of his brawny, muscular thighs, he managed to ascend upwards onto his knees: slamming you face first into the crisp sheets of his hospital bed. He snickered sinisterly, breathily, as you squealed at the abrupt movement. He pounded into you like a lout, thrusting his aching cock into you as if you were just a toy designed to be wrecked.

"F-fuck, I'm gonna cum again." You cried, clawing at the sheets, blankets crinkling underneath your clammy fingers. Your face was permanently scrunched into a pleasurable grimace, jaw dropped, a chunk of your hair being fisted in his tatted hand. 

"Do it, slut." He growled, commanded, hips smacking into your ass, the aggressive fap echoing around the room. "Cum."

He pumped his hot seed into your core as you climaxed for the second time. His cock pulsed and spasmed as your juices conjoined with his cum and drizzled down your thighs, your moans shrewd and high. 

Your breaths quivered as he eased out of you, a low groan rumbling in his chest. He collided back with the sheets, skimming his fingers through his hair, panting. You tumbled over to face him, his dreary eyes hooded and peering down at you from the length of his nose. 

"Come here." 

You crawled up his frame, and his hand found the back of your skull. "Clean this up." 

He directed your mouth to his cock, and you eagerly swiped it clean of your bawdy juices and his cum. He sighed at the impact, eyes closing, as you licked every inch of his shaft clean. You draped the sheet over his recovering length once you were finished.

Then, he lugged you higher up his body, attacking your lips with his hungrily. He hummed navally when you exchanged your spit that tasted of your coarse acts, hand resting on your cheek. 

The monitor continued to race, only narrowing out by the passing seconds as you kissed softly. One hand pliantly settle on your waist, the other cupping your cheek, as you transferred an abundance of slow kisses. 

The harsh bristle of the drape sliding open caused you to jolt. Your lips broke away from the captivation of the kiss, as you stumbled off of his lap and pivoted to face the opening in the tarp. The white light spilled through the compact space, and Kylo nearly hisses as it stings his vulnerable eyes. 

Cardo stomped inside, disregarding your breathless dispositions, his face contorted into a depiction of earnest. 

"We have to get out of here." He breathed, radiating urgency and turmoil. "The cops are after us. They found evidence in the ruins of our base."

You peeled away from Kylo, his hand lingering on your hip, as he stared at Cardo stoically. Cold and unbothered.

"Bring me my gun." He ordered blatantly, grunting and clutching his wounded abdomen as he plows up from his position and stumbles off of the bed. 

Cardo nodded and set off to comply.

"What are you doing?" You asked dubiously, reluctantly, as Kylo gritted his teeth and suppressed a limp, trudging to the drape walls. 

"Fighting those fuckin' pigs off." He grumbled mundanely, compressing his plump lips.

Cardo's arm extended through the drape, discreetly passing Kylo his loaded gun. He smirked as he eyed it, juggling it in his hand, smoothing out the glacial titanium with his finger. 

The stampeding rumble of the floor indicated that the police had reached the level Kylo was being housed on. The clacks of boots thudding into the tile caused fear to bubble in your gut. 

He staggered over to the medical cart, scooping up a scalpel. "Take this." He says, tossing it in your direction. You caught the silver hilt and rounded the cot to greet him at his side.

You were submerged in trepidation: despite your lethal occupation, you've never tampered with the police before. You've always avoided any instance that could provoke a bump-in with the authorities.

You and Kylo emerged from the compact room belligerently, plowing through the stale hallways as he guarded you with his broad frame. There was a nimble limp in his stride, but that didn't make his power-march any less facilitated and ravenous. 

A squadron of cops bustled through the elevator doors, armed and undignified. With the bleak flicker of your eyes, you counted five, although there was an abundance of uniformed men aiming and shouting imposes at you. 

Kylo was relentless: he aimed straight for the skull of one of the cops, blasting him in the face with a heap of two copper bullets. The other cops aimed and fired once their fellow officer dropped dead. He grappled onto you and lugged you to his side as he maneuvered you to be crouching behind a counter.

Fortuitously— Ushar and Kuruk, the skilled combat wielders of the clan of cruel men, surfaced from the slim corridor adjacent to the cops. They shot copiously, the flash of a coruscating white blinding your vision as the hospital staff and occupants screamed and took shelter.

You creeped past the counter, eyes falling to the piles of dead men lapping to the floor, blood pooling all along the cold mosaic. Only two cops survived, guns wavering as they blubbered and cowered, aiming back and forth between you and the other men.

One of them managed to tackle Kylo: the easily 5'10 officer would never amount to the brawniness of him. They fussed and grunted, rolling around on the ground. Ushar handled the cop to be last standing... as you leered your arm back and jabbed the scalpel through the cop atop of Kylo, wriggling your wrist and piercing the blade through his pulse. 

The officer limply stumbled off of his frame, colliding into the floor and his own puddle of blood that seeped and spewed through the gash in his neck, the scalpel lodged into his throat. 

Kylo gawked at you with a look that read: "Thats my girl." A proud smirk touching his lips, as you smiled gravely back and aided him off of the floor.

Nurses and medics were squealing and wailing, calling the nearest police department for backup after the bloodbath that had just occurred in the main foyer of the fourth floor. Ushar and Trudgen allowed you and Kylo to pass before following your eerily calm and mollified demeanor. 

Bloody hands eloped, you both peacefully stepped over the lifeless bodies gurgling blood on the ground. A siren blares from the speakers, declaring the building to be on lockdown, and that was a cue for you to cut your oddly-gratifying victory short and escape before the next round of officers deployed. 

You stumbled down a prolonged flight of stairs, lacking the stealth of a true convict and instead fleeing the scene like a flock of birds. You were out just as agilely as you were in. Not a single patron dared to interfere with your briskness, making your escape from the catastrophic hospital simple. 

Cardo already had the Cadillac fired up in the back alleyway, the rumble of the engine ricocheting off of the bleak brick walls. Exhaust fumes billowed through the air, as you all breathlessly shoved yourselves into the growling vehicle.

Kylo climbed over the counsel from the back, grunting as he toppled down into the front seat, pawing his dewy black locks out of his face. Blood littering his features, that had gushed from the cop you bodied with your scalpel. 

You supplied yourself with a few pacifying breaths, hoping to alleviate the tension building in your chest. Raking in the cold, winter air that reeked of leaky sewage wafting in from the cracked window. You closed your eyes and relished in the stillness of the vehicle, as raspy breaths resounded from everyone's agape lips. 

The moment of modifying silence was interrupted by the wail of sirens. A crimson and blinding-blue gleam painting the interior of the Cadillac. The car speeds rapidly down the road like a volant, as Cardo swerves around steady traffic to escape the police nipping at the rear of the car. 

Kylo simply sighed, as if the whole ordeal was bland and inconvenient. He rolled his eyes, smudging his sleeves up to the crooks of his elbows, rolling the window down. His upper-half tumbled out of the window, elbows stabilized on the windowsill, as he narrows his eyes and shoots at the police car. 

His coiled, dark waves billowed and swayed with the frisky wind, his large nose painted scarlet from the cold. He used the headrest as a shield with every fire the cops inflicted, before popping his head back out and shooting mercilessly. 

Then, the screech of brakes could be heard. 

The cop car flipped over, banging and clanking into the ground, glass smashing and men bleating in agony, as the carcass of the vehicle swerved off of the road. 

"Eat shit." Kylo sneered, plopping back down in his seat. "Fucking bastards."

Everyone disregarded his scoffs and huffs of vexation, including Cardo, who glanced at him in his peripherals.

"Where to now, sir?" He asked solemnly, with no avail in his breathy tone.

Kylo tilted his head to glimpse you, as you sit perched obediently and stiff in the backseat, shoulders tense and body quaking with adrenaline. His expression was deadpan as he surveyed your turmoil, his eyes darting back to Cardo as he swallowed. 

"We need to see Snoke."


	18. My Reckless Lover

It's been nearly thirty-four hours. You all managed to scout out miscellaneous clothing items, so you no longer had to adorn bloody, scrappy clothes.

Cardo was slouched into the bullet-proof glass pane of the car window, snoring his apprehensions away, his pocketknife swathed by his death grip around the hilt. Prepared to lurch and slash at any given moment. 

The other three, were crammed and squashed in the back of the Cadillac, slothfully sprawled out and snoring gruffly. Their grizzly sounds of exhaustion were nearly rumbling the entire vehicle. Vicrul was driving, eyes squinted, as he occasionally slapped the fatigue out of himself, and persevered through the artificial-streetlights that beamed exuberantly from overhead. Flickering by in blinding spurts. Making his head thump with a persistent need for rest.

You were accompanying Kylo in the passengers seat; planted in his lap, squirming, face nuzzled into his glistening clavicle. His features were taut with unease, vigilance, as he buried his own face into your tousled, messy hair. Peering out the window through hooded, bloodshot eyes, watching the silhouettes of towering pine trees as they wisped by robustly, shadowed by the darkness and the moons tranquil glow. Engrossed by the bleak whir of the car. 

He was supplying himself these leisure, calm moments to mollify his fiery-red rage from earlier in the hospital. Because this... quietude that filtered out the trepidation in the car, was only the calm before the storm. They were heading to Nevada. To confront Snoke about the tragedy. The tragedy that would send Kylo plummeting into a pit of his bosses bloody, ruthless wrath.

You were asleep, mewling softly as you dreamt about surely despicable things. Kylo sighed mundanely, his chest swelling into your frame, that was curled up and nestled into his toned body. His aimless gaze broke free from the drab scenery being displayed beyond the window, falling to his gun, that blatantly rattled on the dashboard. 

"Do you need me to drive?" He asked, voice baritone and quiet, to avoid disrupting your state of entranced slumber. 

Your drool was lapping at his pulse, quaint snores wafting into his throat. His adam's apple bobbed against the tip of your nose, as he embraced you tighter and shifted in his seat. He angled his head by a smidge, altering his gaze to lock on Vicrul's, as he shrugs. 

They exchanged a pointed look, as Vicruls eyes flash over you, observing your sleeping frame, that rises and falls tranquilly. "You'll have to move her." He says, "she looks comfortable. Don't wanna provoke the demon." He quips, earning him a dreary snort from Kylo.

"You're right." He retorts quietly, his shallow smirk lingering on his plush lips as he peers down at you, stroking your hair. 

Vicrul glimpses the rear-view mirror, shifting in his seat awkwardly, glancing over his shoulder to survey his brothers. Assuring himself they were all asleep. 

"Do you think Snoke is gonna make you do it?" He asks reluctantly, heedfully, cautiously tiptoeing around his words to avoid eliciting that fury that was bubbling in Kylo's gut at the mere mention of Snoke, and his plans for his exploits. 

He clenches his jaw and scoffs, tongue poking and prying at his innercheek. His eyes dart to the window, as he props up his elbow on the windowsill and strokes his temple, trying to contemplate and register everything that had led up to this moment to begin with. 

"You know... kill her?" Vicrul affirms, gulping. One of his hands abandoned the steering wheel to brush the scar that you had inflicted upon him, when you engaged in your first hostile encounter with one another.

"What?" Kylo spat, whipping his head back around to face him. He scorns him with a ridiculed glare, eyebrows weaving together. 

"Oh, fuck." Vicrul hisses, hands slamming into the wheel, fingers white-knuckling the leather curve, as he rolls his eyes at his bosses audaciousness. "The whole objective of recruiting her was... to obey Snokes orders. Entice her, and kill her." He defends. 

"I know." He murmurs solemnly back, his head crashing into the headrest in exasperation. His free hand, that wasn't rubbing alleviating circles into your back, springs up to vigorously knead his forehead. "Fuck." He groans through gritted teeth. 

Vicrul appeases him by stifling a response. He could critique him for growing attached to his target— and his most valuable target, at that. But he was his brother before he was his associate. It was refreshing, in a way, to see the person that had dedicated his life to the thrill of the hunt and all of the contemptible obscenities of life— fall for the girl he was inimically drawn to. It was very bewildering and contradicting, too. 

"What's the plan, boss?" He attempts to jeer, chuckling nervously with a feather-light grin. Trying to dissolve the tension that was thickening the torrid air. 

Kylo stiffened when you exhaled into his flesh, squirming and twisting around, adjusting your position in his lap. You flailed a bit, humming, your head dipping back to rest in the crook of his elbow. You squish your face into his chest, the warmth emitting from his skin bled through his crimson-stained shirt.

He compresses his lips together, under eye twitching as he peers down at you lethargically. "I know what I have to do." He responds, voice dropping a few ravenous octaves.

***

The suns amber, dusky glow seeped through the tinted windows. You yawned, breath hitching, as you scraped the crust out of your eyes and stretched your limbs— stilling when your arm poked a heaving figure. Your eyes flutter open, squinting to adjust to the mornings chirpy glow.

Apparently, you were lugged into the backseat. Vicrul and Kylo had exchanged seats. Vicrul was slumped, body limp, head resting on the window. Kylo was steering, a cigarette dangling from his lips, unlit and anticipating, as he drove with a mundane expression. Eyes narrowed and trained on the road. The crisp sleeves of his button-up were rolled at half-mass, clinging to the crooks of his elbows, showcasing his brawny arms and tattoos.

Cardo was still snoozing, snoring boisterously. Your head was resting on his lap, hair splaying around your face, as his knuckles twitch against your scalp. And a sheet was now draped lazily over your frame. 

Your eyes were observing Kylo's in the rear-view mirror as his honey-hazel irises gleamed like nectar beneath the suns golden rays. They flickered and locked on yours. He glimpsed you from over his shoulder, his hand escaping the wheel, and extending back to rub your thigh tenderly.

"Morning, tesoro." He grumbles, his dull greeting muffled by his cigarette. His hand slithers away from your thigh and scoops up the lighter that was zilching around on the dashboard. He cracks the window open, cups the tip of his cigarette, and lights it briskly. "You slept for awhile."

You nodded, peeling away from Cardo's lap, swathing yourself in the sheet and sitting up. You scoot your way over to the window, propping your knees on the back of Kylo's seat. 

"Did you sleep at all?" You ask, glancing around the vehicle, noticing that everybody is wiped out. 

He takes a puff of his cigarette, exhaling the smoke through his nostrils and parted lips. White tendrils swirl around his face. "Some." He responds idly, meeting your gaze in the mirror. He wordlessly reaches back and hands you his cigarette.

You smile gratefully, taking a drab hit, spewing it out through the corner of your lips and passing it back. "So. Where we headed?"

He contemplates his response for awhile. Formulating his words ethically, meticulously piecing them together. "Las Vegas. Snoke owns a penthouse down there. We're hoping we can... hide out there for awhile, until we have a more calculated plan." He addresses, as if he's teetering around the answer. 

"Oh." You perk up a bit, feeling content with his response. Instead of gravitating towards the hint of heedfulness in his tone, you obliviously accepted his deliberation. His plan presents itself as easy enough. You trusted his judgement. "Okay."

Trust was a pliant thing— a virtue that you rarely succumbed or committed to. When your world revolves around an abundance of egregious people and things, it's hard to submit to trust. The occupation that you heedlessly left behind, the past that you unreluctantly burrowed down deep, made it easier to become begrudged and unfaithful. 

That was your job. Protecting yourself physically and cognitively, from your detrimental duties. There were things that could be perceived as easier about your occupation, though, and that was the money. When you were a warped crook that killed for the green; being wealthy came easy, and fast, and unprecedented. It was the immoral acts that you committed that took the greater tool. You had to be mentally strong enough to convey your vain and malice. 

Kylo's phone ringing thunderously, rattling in the console, shucked you out of your spiraling thoughts. You blinked meaningfully, glaring out the window, studying the bleak scenery. 

You were clearly wanders away from New York. The terrain was dry, drab, and tawny. Bushels of tumbleweed ironically bristled and rolled with the humid breeze. The suns beaming rays were deadly and scorching as opposed to calming and refreshing. 

"Yes?" Kylo gruffly clamors. The phone molten with his ear, as he holds it firmly. His wrist was dangling over the steering wheel, the shrinking cigarette lodged between his two long fingers.

There was muffled, unarticulated chatter erupting from the opposite end. Kylo sighs. 

"About two hours." He responds curtly. Wrist tapping the wheel tetchily. Ashes flicking off of the amber-gleaming tip of his cigarette. 

Cardo stirs at your side, grumbling, his head drearily lifting from the window. He peers around his surroundings, dazed and befuddled. Before reality crashes into him like a voluptuous wave, and he sighs heavily, releasing the tension that had pint up in his shoulders. 

You stiffly outstretched your leg to poke him with your foot. He cocks a jaded brow, angling his head limply to face you, hooded eyes slowly raking you in. He smirks drowsily, humming.

You inch closer, eyeing Kylo dubiously. "Who is he on the phone with?" You whisper, studying him with a curious grimace.

He looms over to you, his smug smirk loitering on his lips, as he whispers back. "Don't worry 'bout it, sweetheart." He quips, booping your nose, slouching back over and crossing his arms. He shifts to seek out his original, comfortable position. He closes his eyes, smiling prudently. "Go back to sleep."

This time, you kick him. Snickering when he grunts in astonishment and glares at you, subconsciously straightening his position. "What?" He hisses, a ripple surfacing in his brow. His deep-brown eyes bored through yours in bewilderment. 

"Don't be a jackass." You demand, keeping your breathy, inquisitive words low. "Is it Snoke?" 

Both of you listen in attentively. Tuning in to curiously devour the merely coherent, grizzly words emitting from the opposing end of Kylo's track phone. 

Cardo opens his mouth to respond, only to be interrupted by Kylo's loud, strident shout. "No!" He shrills. His gravelly voice cracked a smidge. He lowers his voice, semi-sheepishly eyeing around the car, as everybody jolts awake. "No... I just... I just need time." 

Vicrul staggers up and glowers at him, shocked and concerned. He glanced around as all of you shift in trepidation, the men in the back groaning and scrambling upwards. 

"Yes. Mhm." He responds, gritting his teeth, as if he's struggling to fabricate a word without it slipping out as patronizing. "I said I would take care of it. When have I ever disappointed you?"

Then, you could hear it, plain as day. That familiar, ravenous, gritty voice: "Never. And you better withhold my respect, Ren."

Your heart sank, blood running cold with malice and disdain. It was the man that ordered Kylo to do those harrowing, abhorrent things to Poe. The man whom ordered his ginger-headed underboss of sorts to eliminate you. It was the man that clearly slashed your man with the whips of his unlawful guidance.

The beep of his portable flip-phone initiated that the call had ended. He slams it down, making a grunt of disapproval to himself, belligerently discarding his cigarette bud out the window. 

There was a moment of turmoil and silence, before Kylo erupts into a fit of deep, monotone chuckles. The tension ceases automatically, everybody releasing a breath of relief. 

Vicrul chimes in with his bland laughter, "Good fucking morning to us." He jeers wryly. 

"I need some food. Anybody else?" Cardo adds. Murmurs of ecstatic approval sweep over the mass of men in the back, as you nod robustly and hum in agreement. 

***

The blinding, coruscating lights of Las Vegas gleamed exuberantly. Colorfully. The vibrant reds, neon blues, and bright pinks washed over you and painted your features in a colorful hue. The traffic was condensed and boisterous. The ornate buildings, nightclubs, and centers completely dedicated to gambling clustered the bright city. It was ravishing and exhilarating. 

The windows were rolled down, allowing the frisky winter air to billow and topple through the Cadillac, as half of you indulged in a cigarette to ease your spiraling notions. You were blaring Lana Del Rey— the boys granted you permission to the aux for the last hour of the drive. They were enjoying your music way more than they would like to admit. 

Cardo blatantly bobbed his head to the music, tapping his combat-booted foot, swaying his cigarette around with the beat. You laughed every single time he made an attempt at memorizing the lyrics. The others appeared less intrigued, although they all drummed the seats and windowsills with their fingers to the melody and goddess-like words of Lana. 

You sung the words vigorously, passionately, pouring your soul into every word. Poking your head and extended arm out the window, you let the freezing breeze trickle lines of goosebumps along your skin, singing the Ultraviolence album to your hearts desire. 

Kylo was smirking at you in the mirror when you glimpsed his reflection. You did a double take, smiling coyly at him, heat rushing to your cheeks and coloring them a bashful rouge. Apparently the rest of them were tuning out your shrilling singing— that merely ashamed you, despite the knowledge your voice was horrendous— because it felt like you and Kylo were the only people in a one thousand mile radius when your gazes united.

He swiveled the knob, adjusting the volume, minimizing it. Vicrul sighed in relief, nudging Kylo's arm playfully. "I think she's trying to make us go deaf back there." He taunts, wiggling his eyebrows, as you flash him a glare and continue screaming the lyrics over the honks of cars and energetic-bass emitting from the surrounding buildings.

Eventually— you arrived to an opulent, towering building. The music was rowdy and robust, bleeding through the golden-etched archways of the colossal entrance. 

Everyone spilled out of the compact car gratefully, bleating, stretching, groaning, as they flexed their muscular backs and extended their stiff limbs. The amount of burley, intimidating men clamoring and grunting as they wobbled out of the car earned you a few questionable looks. 

Kylo's large, calloused, tattooed hand eloped with yours, lugging you protectively to his side. You were peering up at the prodigious building with wide, entranced eyes. Before he softly conveyed your hand to his lips and pressed a pliant kiss to your knuckles to draw your attention. He was a feigned charmer after all, and that was his go-to enigmatic move. And even though he already has you, he finds himself performing the stunts that he used to, in order to win you over.

"Come on." He commands, tone heavy with apprehension. His core was taut and churning with distress. His conversation on the phone with Snoke earlier added to the flame of festering guilt and culpability spreading throughout his body. This could not end well.

His plan, could not end well. 

Not for you. Not for him. Not for anybody. It was dangerous, incompetent, and averse. But it was still worth a shot. It was still worth the baleful results that it could conjure.

He guided you through the zestful, raunchy club. Strippers circled and spiraled around silver, glistening poles, as old men watched with bulging eyes and bulging dicks. Trudgen and Ushar let their eyes linger for a little longer than appropriate, too. Red lights and an ivory, elated fog clouded the seductively illuminated space. Gambling machines clanked and chimed, as people downed liquor and wasted their money away on corrupt games.

"Stay here with them. I'll be back. I need to.. discuss things with Snoke." I need to convince Snoke to let me keep you alive.

You nodded, as he murmured into your ear. He granted you an idle look of reassurance, mumbling to Vicrul, as he accompanies him through the mass of dancers and alcoholics. A man garbed in all black garments and gear exchanged a brief, familiar conversation with them, before escorting them to a broad corridor tucked away in the shadowy corners of the club. 

Cardo plopped down into one of the empty chairs margining a clothed, lavish table, that offered an ideal view of the stage. He was popping on his gum, tapping his boot, smirking up at you with raised eyebrows as he chewed obnoxiously. 

"Come here, princess." He teases, patting his lap, tongue darting out to lick his lips as he chuckles mundanely at himself. He thinks he's comical. All the time. Out of all of them, he was the excruciating pain in your ass. 

You wave your middle finger around at him, sticking your tongue out to patronize him. "Fucker." You bark, as you plummet down into his lap anyway— forcefully writhing on top of him, applying a painful amount of force to his dick. He hissed in agony, pawing you away, adjusting you to rest on one of his thighs as you giggle proudly.

Time ceased to exist— as you all chugged shots down by the glass and indulged in an ardent game of pure, raw poker. You were playing in the home of gambling, after all. It was appeasing to just render to the competitive game with your makeshift "friends" as you drank, and swiveled in Cardo's lap— whom already gave up because you won every time, and he was a sore loser. 

You and Ap'lek were engaging in a pretentious stare off. Eyes narrowed, demeanors serious, poker-faces plastered on. Cardo looms over your shoulder to survey your cards, eyebrows raising when he scans your set of full-flush cards. He whistled defeatedly for Ap'lek, shaking his head, sitting back to observe. 

Ap'lek haphazardly placed his card down, eyes never abandoning yours, for the dramatic effect. He was trying to distract you. 

You grinned, when your eyes fell upon the King he had delicately placed down. You feigned that you were scanning your options, before vehemently slamming an Ace down, plowing off of Cardo's lap and doing a little victory dance as Ap'lek curses and gulps down his vodka, glaring at you bitterly. 

The rest of them snickered at his defeat, "That was the fourth fucking time!" Cardo barked out a laugh, slapping his knee, poking fun at Ap'lek as he sneers at all of you. 

"Shut the hell up, Cardo." He growls, crossing his arms defensively. "That's why she whooped your ass every time." 

He cocked a brow, taking a sip of his bourbon, shrugging. "Touché." 

Meanwhile... Kylo and Vicrul were divulging Snoke with all of the things you have done to aid them— as a way to sugar lure him into rendering you your own vitality. Only, Snoke was not feeble-minded. He was the master of creating twisted mind games himself, he would never buy what they were selling. 

Leading to the complex, dirty deliberation they pieced together last minute in order to save you from their corrupt, abusive leaders wrath. 

Apparently, Kylo's devotion to you— as your perfectly reckless, nefarious lover— was much more potent and stronger than his dedication to Snokes cruel reign. Because he was contemplating on breaking that frisky trust he had spent years earning from Snoke. 

His plans strayed far beyond just cracking that eggshell of trust that had kept him heedfully assigned to Snoke's conquests, though. 

That must be why the gun he concealed in his coat pocket felt eight-times heavier and laboring. It was hefty with inculpation. Despite the torment and egregious things Snoke had put him through, he speculated him as a figure that taught and disobeyed him, molded him into the strong, independent man he was now.

"There are no ifs, ands or buts!" Snoke shrilled with his grueling voice, swiping his glass of whiskey off of his desk, as it plummets into the floor and shatters into keen, sloppy shards. "When I say get rid of the girl, I mean get rid of the fucking girl." 

Kylo and Vicrul merely flinch at the hostile encounter. They only eye him stoically.

"She has created too much chaos. She killed one of our most meticulous men— she slaughtered Hux!" 

Kylo sat up briskly, squinting at Snoke audaciously, hands extended pointedly. "And, this only proves that she is perfectly capable of being recruited as one of us." 

A blinding flare of rage burned in Snoke's retinas, as his eyes bored through Kylo's. He rounded his desk, stomping, brushing past Vicrul to tower over Kylo as he sits perched and pliant on a leather armchair. 

He stared down at him with pure disdain and contempt in his eyes— before he strikes him on the cheek with the back of his wrinkly knuckles. Kylo stifles any form of discomfort, head thrashing to the side. He clenches his jaw, leisurely angling his head back to glare at him.

"This girl has tampered with your sanity, Ren!" He spits, shouting the words with spiteful meaning, hands flailing around as he gestures ravenously. "She killed one of our men. Her life is non-negotiable. Kill her..."

He squares his slim chest and retrieves his gun from the holster straining his waist. 

"Or I will."


	19. Don’t Test My Power

"Or I will." 

The fiery pique that harvests in Kylo's chest is fatally salient. His heart thumps and swells with abhorrence. The rage, and desolation, and callousness of it all is contorting his vision into a savage red. A ruthless crimson. His eyes were glazed over with raw, animalistic anger. 

Vicrul cleared his throat, wordlessly reprimanding him. Kylo's features flashed with fury only for a moment, before he managed to broadcast a stoicism that left him appearing unbothered and dignified. 

"Speaking of your little friend. She's down there wasting away. Drinking and partying." Snoke starts through a snarl, pivoting around to pace the mosaic floor. He scoops up the bottle of whiskey he used to pour his bronze-liquor only moments before. He takes an idle swig straight from the bottle. "Wouldn't want anything bad to happen to her, you know, with all the people hounding her for money..." 

Kylo's ears perk up, his demeanor shifting from consequential to purely concerned. The prudence was nearly tactile in Snoke's tone; he was up to something. Something completely lethal and grievous, with dire, dangerous intent. His eyes flicker over his cruel, mercenary-of-a boss. His jaw clenches as he sits up, propping his elbows on his knees, clasping his tatted hands together earnestly.

"She's worth thousands." He reminds shrewdly, cocking a brow, as he takes another sip. "Whose to say someone hasn't already managed to expropriate her drinks with arsenic?"

Kylo stands up, plowing out of his seat, the lavish leather squelching at his abrupt movement. "What the fuck did you do?" He drawls heedfully, narrowing his eyes accusingly. He looms forward, bracing Snoke's desk with his veiny hands, as he zoned in on the ignoble man.

"Watch it, Ren." Snoke snaps. He glowers at him indignantly. "You and I both know that I hold her precious little life in my hands. Don't test my power."

Kylo seethed out an unarticulated murmur in response. His fist crashing down into the surface of the dark oak, art-deco desk. He swivels around to face Vicrul, his face flushed ruby with vexation. He supply's him with a curt nod. Vicrul nods back, bidding his conventional farewells to Snoke and scampering out of his office. 

Kylo rakes in a hefty, prolonged breath. Harboring his breath in his lungs, as his hand haphazardly reaches into his coat-pocket, where the gun hangs heavy and loaded. 

The atmosphere shifts from consequential and orthodox, to deadly, as he veered in on Snoke with his chest swelled and gaze diabolical. Untamed anger burned behind his hazel-molten eyes, like a growing wildfire of vengeance, and flames of fury. 

The arrogance that fueled Snoke just before simmered out to be lingering enigma, as he gulps and watches his underbosses every, methodical, predatory movement. 

The minuscule click of the guns safety-switch popping up causes Snoke's chin to quiver. 

Kylo had to suppress a corrupt grin, as he releases his gun leisurely. His tongue pokes past his plush lips, as he narrows his eyes, and dauntingly brings the muzzle of the gun to the clammy flesh of Snoke's wrinkled forehead.

"Hm." Kylo hums gruffly. Mundanely. Observing his suddenly meek, futile boss, as he holds the guns tip steadily to his head. "Don't fucking test my power, vecchio.”

***

"Be a dear, and fetch me a martini, please." You feign opulence, your smile pearly, as you bat your eyelashes at Ushar.

You were tipsy. Borderline intoxicated. Your thoughts were scrambled, brain discombobulated. You were drearily swaying in Cardo's lap as your arms dangle woozily around his neck. His hand was plastered to your back, as he smirks drunkenly at you, slurring. 

"Comin' right up, babe." Ushar quips, springing up from his seat margining the clad table, trudging over to the bar with a tipsy-pep in his step. 

"Thank you!" You shout deliriously over the thumping, exuberant music. He disregards you with an idle wave of acknowledgement, as he flirts with the burley bartender. 

"What are we playin' now, hun?" Cardo sighs, arm curling around your waist, as he sits up straighter and fumbles with the stack of cards unethically sprawling around the table. 

You shrug your shoulders briskly, forearms looped around his neck, hand feathering through his hair. One of your favorite songs starts blaring through the bass-enhanced speakers and you gasp, grinning cheekily. 

"Let's dance instead!" You chirp, hopping off of his lap and circling his wrist, prying him out of his seat. He grunts as he stumbles to meet your giddy strides to the clustered dance floor. 

You grind into him, hips swaying wobbly with the music, his hands guiding you back into him as you both chuckle and thrive under the beaming, flickering red lights and oxidizing clouds of dry ice. If you were anywhere near sober, you would be swatting him away, or even kicking him in the groin. Fortunately for him, you were a semi-light drinker. 

As you were dancing, a line of goosebumps surfaced on the nape of your neck, the baby hairs stiffening and tingling. Your giggle dies in your throat, as you slow your pace within Cardo's grasp, and glance over your shoulder. You could feel eyes boring through the back of your head, even with your senses disheveled due to the amount of alcohol you had consumed. 

Narrowing your eyes to peer through the haze of smoke, you choke on your own gulp when you notice a pair of familiar, friendly eyes gleaming at you from across the club. 

It was Jasek. Your old bodyguard. That worked laborsome duties for the treacherous Resistance.

"What the hell are you doing?" You hear Vicrul hiss, his growly voice snapping you out of your trance, as you and Cardo both flash him a befuddled look. 

When you both just continued dancing together and eyed him, he scoffed, ripping Cardo's hands off of you. "You would've been a deadman if it was Kylo Instead of me." Vicrul snarls, shifting from foot to foot. "Anyways. We need to go. I'll collect the rest of the gang. Can you guys find Ushar?" 

Cardo nodded, clearing his throat, as you pivoted back around to face Jasek with your eyebrows woven together, baffled. He stared back at you, granting you a shy smile. You scowl. Your hands ball into fists at your sides.

Before you can appease yourself and manage your temper, you storm through the crowd, charging at him, fists swinging. Your heels clacked belligerently into the tiled floors, as Jasek nervously adjusts his tie and swallows.

He must've underestimated your anger, because before he could react or defend himself, you socked him in the face. He groaned, as you twisted his pale arm and wrung it around behind his back, slamming him into the floor. You pinned him down with your knee, gritting your teeth. 

"Why are you here?" You sneer, and he grunts, wriggling in your impressively deathly grip.

His face was smushed into the tile, lips puckered, cheek squished. "I'm off duty!" His shout was muffled as he grumbled your name, shifting and squirming in discomfort.

"And?" You snort, tightening your grasp, looming your face over his. "That doesn't mean you weren't sent here to kill me."

"I quit, okay? I left. I left them. Organa sent Poe to search for us both. That's why I came here. To get away." He breathes urgently, words rambling together, as you release him at once with furrowed brows. 

"Why did you leave?" You ask curiously, aiding him up into a slothful sitting position, as he flexed and wriggled his wrists with a grimace.

A hand cups your shoulder, rubbing hastily, and you glance up at Cardo. Ushar was with him. "Come on. We gotta go." He cocks his head towards the entrance, his eyes dropping to Jasek. He glowers down at him with pure disdain. "What the fuck are you doing here?" 

You shucked him off of you gently, averting your focus to Jasek, as he shoots Cardo a glare. "They wanted me to kill you. I couldn't do it. After the incident with Finn, I haven't looked at the Resistance the same. I had to get out before they made me do something I regretted." He defends, stuttering on his words, wide eyes flickering around the floor. 

"I thought I was being assigned as your bodyguard. That's all. But then corrupt talk about hurting you started speculating, and I left it all behind." He continues. 

You open your mouth to respond, and Cardo intervenes by musing your name sternly. He peers down at you with earnestly raised eyebrows, jaw clenched. 

"You... thank you. That means everything to me." You smile apprehensively, patting his shoulder. "I, um. I have to go. I'm sorry. Thank you for everything." 

You ascend to your feet, Cardo's arm looping around yours to guide you through the crowd. Your eyes linger on Jasek. He shouts, "Wait! Where are you headed?" 

You glance at Cardo, and he responds to him gruffly, "Not certain yet. Anywhere but here. This place is gonna turn into one big shoot out at any moment." He states blatantly, urging you on. 

Jasek staggers to his feet. "I have special access to the Nightcrawlers club further down Fremont." He breathes. 

This earns him Cardo's attention, as he swivels back around to face him with a cocked, intrigued brow. He ponders for a moment, before sighing defeatedly, when he noted the hopeful look glowing upon Jasek's pudgy face.

"Follow us." He grumbled monotonously, plowing through the crowd, as Jasek trailed stoically behind, rolling his shoulders. 

Just as you reached the threshold to exit the nightclub, a boisterous, resounding gunshot pops and reverberates around the already loud bar. Some disregard it, unable to hear over the robust music, some glance around in bewilderment, as others screamed and ducked. The pop streamed from the corridor that Kylo entered only an hour before.

You had a minimal amount of seconds to reconcile on what your hearing had just discerned, as people trampled out of the bar, hurdling and stampeding you through the entrance. You, Cardo, Ushar, and Jasek, all stumbled out with the mass of frightened people. You all sprinted to the Cadillac, where the rest of the gang already waited. 

You slipped into the backseat, body buzzing and pulsating with adrenaline, as your eyes flash to the passenger seat, expecting to see Kylo. But you didn't. Your eyebrows crinkle together, as you glance around the car, heart fluttering with trepidation. 

"Wheres Kylo?" You breathe, asking nobody in particular, frantically searching for him in the dark abyss of cloaked men. 

Nobody responds. Instead, the engine roars and sputters, the car fleeing from the brutal scene unfolding within the barriers of Snoke's nightclub. "Are we just going to leave him?" You shrill, climbing over the backseat to peer out the window, watching as the crowd shrieks and spills from the bar. No sign of Kylo.

Your head throbs. Colorful dots speckle your vision. You seethe and brace your skull in your hands, kneading your temples, as everything oddly spirals and churns around you. 

"He'll be fine." Vicrul demands, "Trust me. Everything's being taken care of." 

If only you both knew, that Kylo was the complete opposite of fine. And so were you.


	20. The Contract Killer

The strident, thunderous shouts of words being barked roused you from your ornate state of... slumber. No— unconsciousness. Your head was withholding that persistent, agonizing throb. You groaned and kneaded your forehead, as you staggered up and rendered yourself stability by clutching onto the glossy basin. 

You were in a public restroom. The men's room. Cardo, Ap'lek, and Vicrul were all circling around you, arguing earnestly about topics that you could merely discern over the piercing white noise that pulsates in your ears. You open your mouth to whimper, only for a bleat to topple from your quivering lips instead. 

Your stomach churned with the queasy urge to vomit. Your limbs felt heavy, anchored to the grimy tile. It was a side-effect of a drug. Your thoughts were scrambled mush, it would be infeasible for you to fabricate what drug it could be identified as. 

"W-where's Kylo?" You whine, words slurred, head rolling to lull on your shoulders as you sit limply plastered against the wall.

Cardo's head snaps in your direction. His eyes survey you attentively, gingerly. The glint in his eyes nearly flickered with concern. 

"She's awake." He confirms through a transmitter, eyeing you charily. 

Ushar releases a hefty breath of relief on the opposite end of the device, the sound a staticky sputter through the modulator. "Good. Located Snoke's guards, they've been taken care of." He orders stoically. The transmitter beeps defeatedly, as he intentionally cuts the line.

"You okay?" Cardo murmurs, trudging over to you, cupping your cheek platonically. He studies you, tenderly allowing his thumb to stroke your cheekbone. 

You supply him with a meek nod, peering up at him with a wobbly pout and glazed-over eyes. "I'm okay." You whisper nearly incoherently, your voice just the ghost of something somber. "Where is Kylo?" You repeat. 

He disregards your quarry, pursing his lips, dropping his hand stiffly to his side. He crouches to be level with you, his knees popping boisterously at the abrupt movement. He was contemplating his options. Should he be blatantly honest? Should he sugar-coat the cold, brutal truth? Should he lie?

He cracks his knuckles, opening his mouth, the words heating the tip of his tongue as he relents. "We don't know." He lies, exhaling monotonously. "We're working on it. We presume he's in the club still. It's just..." 

Vicrul clears his throat, flashing his brother a pointed, scolding sneer. He shakes his head curtly, eyebrows knitting into a hardline. 

You watch, baffled, distressed, apprehensive. Eyes darting back and forth between Cardo and Vicrul, as they undergo a wordless war that only involves the indignance of their eyes. 

"Let's get you some water..." Cardo says, changing the subject, circling your bicep and aiding you off of the floor. 

He tucks your hair back, digits lightly gripping a bundle of your locks, as you fold at the waist to level your mouth with the faucet, using shaky hands to start the tap. The frisky water chills your teeth, sending shudders down your frame, as the cold, refreshing liquid dribbles down your lips and you moan croakily in satisfaction with the sweet taste of hydration. 

You nearly choke on the water, gulping, chugging it down relentlessly. The cold water was curing the scorching dryness of your throat. You raked in deep heaps of air once you released your mouth from the conduits of water, starkly adjusting the handle to stop the aggressive flow that patted belligerently into the porcelain basin. 

"What are we doing just standing here?" You rasp, hiccuping on your breath, using your forearm to smear the beads of dripping water off of your mouth. "Let's finds him." 

Ap'lek rolls his eyes, snickering bitterly, as Cardo sighs and softens his hardened, undignified expression. 

"No. It's dangerous, there's a lot of shit going down right now." He insists consequentially, his stoic, serious gaze never faltering nor wavering. 

You eye him pretentiously back, your critical gaze refusing to disengage from his, as your lips tediously tug into a scowl.

"I'll fucking go without you, then, if you're too pussy for it." You snarl gravely, straightening your posture and prowling past him, your elbow brushing his broad frame as he clenches his jaw at your insult. 

Ap'lek barks out a poised belly-laugh, "Looks like shes only your little bitch when she's drunk on arsenic!" He chuckles tauntingly, his tone pompous and arrogant, as he clutches his stomach and chuckles wryly.

Cardo did not laugh. He shoved his brother back forcefully, shooting him a despicable, meaningful glare, as he shoves past him lividly to follow you through the threshold. Robust partiers grinding and downing liquor by the solo-cup flooded your visions as you stumbled out of the compact bathroom.

"I'm supposed to protect you, remember?" Cardo hisses, his hand prying your wrist, attempting to lug you back to the tarnished entrance of the mens room.

"I can take care of myself!" You defend, your assertive words tumbling through your numb lips like a concealed plead for help. "Okay? I want to find him. That's all I want." 

He rips his hand away from your wrist, his features taut with deranged defeat and disbelief. "You're not going to like whatever you find." He promises, tone eerily mundane and self-assured. "I'm coming with you. No but's." He states, adjusting the blazer he was clad in, snatching your wrist and guiding you through the crowd.

Cardo grumbles commands into the transmitter as you maneuver through the jewel-garbed cluster of wealthy dancers. This club was similar to the one you met Kylo in, when you were originally tasked to annihilate the conniving Mr. Ren. His favorite opulent nightclub back in Brooklyn, where he indulged in a round of whisky on a Saturday evening, all alone and in solitude, claiming that one designated booth that you once accompanied him in as his dominion for the afternoon. 

He was skilled in claiming things as his own, and sticking with that facade of ownership and possession. He was purely experienced in taking the things he wanted, and catering to them. You were one of those things that he wanted, and earned so delicately with his enticing, effortless charm. 

Cardo successfully escorted you through the exuberant nightclub. You emerged from the grand entrance of the club, entering the frisky embrace of Las Vegas' brash, winter weather, that reeked of twangy street-food. The Cadillac rumbled in anticipation upon the road. Ushar was glaring at you both as you shuffled into the backseat, his eyes narrowed into accusing slits.

"We found him." Trudgen states flamboyantly from the passenger seat, breathlessly feathering his gloved hands through his hair, exchanging a look with Ushar. 

"Take me to him." You demand, crossing your legs, tone stern and commanding. You flashed Ushar a virtuous, pure smile when he cocked a brow at you in the rear-view mirror. "Please." You add. He sighs defeatedly, nodding, as Cardo huffs and scoots away from you. 

The atmosphere within the car was trepidating, as everyone sat square and silent— the air hefty and stuffy with apprehension. It was as if they were prudent, knowledgeable on something that you were completely dispersed in the dark about. And all of them refused to shed the light of their clairvoyance upon you. 

You rolled up to the club you were previously located in, before the swell of gunshots ricocheted throughout the foyer. Now it was completely empty. Litter swirled and billowed through the air surfacing around the entrance, indicating the vacancy of the once-bustling club. 

"He's on the balcony, second floor around the back." Trudgen indulged you.

Before the Cadillac could even fully roll to a stop, you were already cramming yourself through the back door, wobbling and staggering in your heels as you skidded along the sidewalk. You expected Cardo to follow. Wanted him to follow. He must've taken your brief scolding just moments before straight to the heart, because he remained perched in the backseat, avoiding glancing in your direction as he stroked his jaw sheepishly.

You swiveled back around, disregarding his lack of compliance. You sauntered into the club, your heart stammering once you perceived the... mess... that Snoke's crew had fabricated with the wrath of their weapons. Blood peppered the walls, dripping and drizzling in beady droplets of crimson. Puddles of burgundy lapped to the floor, as dead bodies swarmed the space, some gargling and twitching as they were embraced by the dark depths of death. 

You grimace, hugging your coat to your scandalous dress-garbed body, following the bleak route to the corridor that you witnessed Kylo bristle through once you arrived earlier in the evening. You steered clear of the lifeless bodies, unable to identify any of the victims through the haze of lethal scarlets painting the merciless, desolating scene.

You pry the corridor open with a meek grunt, staggering past the threshold. The hallway was narrow and eerily dark, illuminated by a faint, amber glow that flickered poignantly from the room at the end of the slender aisle. 

Your fingers trailed along the wallpapered walls, the silhouette of a distant candles wicker flashing upon the sage-green. Portraits with golden-rimmed plaques were mounted to the walls. One of them adorned an oil-painting of Snoke, the paint protruding in dried clumps at pinpointed sections in which his wrinkles were painted and scrutinized. 

You glowered at the sight, scoffing, trudging further along. Alongside the painting of Snoke, was another portrait, of Hux. His fiery-orange, gelled locks were doodled with precision, that made the flaky tendrils appear tactile. It was such a despairing waste of Impressive artistry skills. 

You continued along the path guiding you to the main foyer of the forbidden, golden-esque room. You froze when your eyes raked in the portrait being paired with Hux's. The plaque plastered to the side reading "Ben Solo" as the face of your beautifully guileful man beams down at you with a grave, solidified pull to his features. Your eyebrows furrowed in bewilderment at the name. 

You surveyed the portrait for only a moment longer, memorizing the valley that burrows lines of vain through his forehead as his eyes crinkle at the corner with his small, cunning smirk. The painting was lavish, the scent of the thinner that coated the portrait to grant it with its polished sheen still lingering upon the canvas.

The only difference about this portrait, was that his satiny, pale skin wasn't burrowing the rigid scar that had slashed through his soft flesh only a handful of hours before. 

A rustle of papers snaps you out of your heedless thoughts. You blink profusely, continuing on your inquisitive path down the hallway, where the bristle had emitted from.

Fully sheathing the room, your eyebrows knit together with curiosity. It was an office. A lavishly carved and architected office, with dark mahogany and modern jet-blacks as the theme. Velvet sheers draped over the stairwell, billowing with the breeze that swept through the office, from the door on top of the lengthy staircase. 

Your eyes loitered on the desk, as an array of scattered papers flopped around, chafing across the waxed wood. You creeped over to it, collecting the mass of papers, pinning them down to the table. Your eyes narrow as you scan the contents of futile words. 

There were a few files of miss-conduct, money laundering and even a handful of crumpled restraining orders. Your eyes blow wide open when you read one of the forms. A restraining order against Snoke, requested by Kylo. Filed in late autumn two years ago. 

Your curiosity mechanized your limbs, conveying them around the desk, as you circle to the opposite side. You eye Snoke's "throne," the leather office chair a tawny, luxurious shade. You shrug, plopping down, scooting in until the wood grazed your abdomen.

You fondle with the golden knobs twined to the drawers, hands searching aberrantly, aimlessly through them. There was an archive of illegal documents, simply stashed into an openly unguarded drawer, the abundance of files organized in alphabetical order. 

Your fingers skimmed through the contents. Do they have files on me? You ponder, flipping through, rummaging through the stack of papers that were organized by the first letter of your last name. You were starting to believe your thought was completely absurd— just as your eyes glazed over a file that contained two people of the same last name as you. 

A gasp flares past your agape mouth, as the papers crinkle under your vice-grasp. Your other hand slings up to cup your mouth and muffle the sobs bubbling in your throat.

Your parents. 

A detailed file designed to implicate them and their flagrant crimes lies in your palms. Not only were the grueling details of their crimes conveyed on the piece of paper. But the details of their death. Details of the murderer assigned to acquire their assassination. 

Under the summary of your parents unlawful, illicit affairs, was the name Kylo Ren in dark, potent ink, that nearly bled through the thin strand of paper.

You swallowed the lump forming in your throat, folding the paper into an unethical square, shoving it down your shirt for safe storage. You sniffle, blinking away the tears that were accumulating in your glossy eyes. 

You crammed everything back inside the drawers and sealed them, springing out of Snoke's chair. You adjusted everything back to the way it was placed before you tampered with it, using your keen memory to primp everything perfectly. 

The faint, blaring shrill of sirens wailing in the distance filled your hearing. "Shit." You murmur to yourself, scrambling towards the marble stairwell that leads to the balcony.

"Kylo?" You call amiably, hopping up the stairs, hand gliding along the guardrail.

Once you reach the top, you freeze.

He was non-chalantly looming over the railing, housing a cigarette between his fingers, puffing on it lethargically. Drying patches of burgundy blood stained his clothes, his hair matting in clumps around his forehead, blood spilling from his left nostril and the corner of his swollen pink lips. He smirks at you, chuckling mundanely. 

"Come here." He commands softly, beckoning you with his free fingers, one forearm propped upon the railing as his other brawny arm opens widely for you. 

You oblige, sliding into his embrace, as he lugs you protectively into his side and hums contently. He was eerily, distraughtfully calm and tranquil. The sirens wailed louder, boisterously, as the distant flicker of blue and red indicated that the authorities were nearing.

"It's beautiful, hm?" He mumbles, smirking down at you. Broadcasting a pacifying aura that managed to ease even your spiraling notion. He rubs your arm consolingly. "All of it is going to be yours soon."

You chuckle nervously, peering up at him with knitted brows. Your laughter died when his features remained stoic. "What do you mean?" You ask charily, voice low and perplexed.

"All will reveal itself over time." He insists, his smirk faltering somberly as he dabs the ashes out of his cigarette, tossing the bud over the balcony. His now free, musk and smoke scented hand cups your cheek, the callouses tweaking upon your soft skin. 

You nestle into his touch when you detect the aching, grave, fragile gleam that sparkles in his hazel eyes, that you had learned to treasure the golden-speckles of as they scrutinized you.

"For now... I just..." He sucks in a sharp, painful breath, nearly knocking the wind out of himself, as he fumbles with his pocket and shakes his head. Those wavy, raven locks flailing gingerly around his face. 

He holds a silver ring in his fingertips, cradling the diamond-peppered band as if it was a piece of brittle glass that would crack beneath his touch. He swallowed, his adam's apple bobbing, as he watched the way your breath hitched and eyes widened. 

"You know I'm not a natural romantic. So I'm going to spare you a speech." He chuckles wryly, dolefully, as you nod and smile giddily back, feeling tears brim your eyelids.

"There is so much we could've had, that we never will." He starts, slipping the ring onto your finger, pupils trembling as his eyes train meaningfully on yours. "This is just.. a symbol of my... fuck." He scratches the back of his head nervously. You can see the panic settling in and rooting in his core as the lights flash underneath the building, the siren blaring and reverberating around the exterior of the club.

"I promise that no matter where we end up, I'm going to protect and care for you." He breathes, glancing down at the street-level, as an array of police cars abruptly scramble in the center of the road, a heap of officers spilling out of the cars and sprinting for the entrance.

"Not even a pair of cuffs could keep you away from me..." He sputters, chest heaving, as you shake your head in disapproval, blubbering out refutes, as his plan dawns on you.

"Kylo... what—"

"There's one more thing." He intervenes, rolling up his sleeve, smushing it up to the crook of his elbow. He flips his forearm over, revealing the clusters of black tattoos. Your eyes lay upon your name. Looped in ravishing cursive, mixed in with the apparel of other daunting tattoos. 

You grin cheekily, your fingers ghosting your name, that was engraved into his flesh. "When did you get this?" You ask in astonishment. 

"Remember that trip I took awhile back?" He asks, as you nod, smiling up at him. Trying to disregard the pounding of stomps and thuds of boots as the cops sweep through the lower half of the building. "Well, since I was in town, I stopped by to see my regular."

The cops were approaching swiftly. The shouts and mingled echoes of their strident footing filtered the space as they entered the office.

Kylo then sloppily smashes his lips into yours, one hand pawing at your waist, the other feathering through your hair, as his lips delved into yours with a kiss so meaningful and passionate that it was dizzying. He was kissing you as if it was the last time he would taste the sweetness of your lips on his own. Deep, pliant, excruciatingly inclinating. It was powerful enough to flood a field of wheat and sink a city of gold.

He pulled you deeper into his embrace, your bodies conjoining and mingling to be one, as you hum contently into the kiss. Never wanting the moment where your lips must disperse to come. Never wanting the blissful warmth of his plush mouth to end. 

The cops barge through the balcony doors, and instead of releasing you, Kylo holds you tighter, refusing to detangle from your body, lips smushing deeper into yours as he groans into the mountain-moving kiss.

Your nails are fisting into his shirt, firmly holding his bulky body to yours, even as the police grapple with his shoulders and attempt to jerk him off of you. Just as they manage to tow him off, he slips a piece of paper down the top of your dress. 

"Get off of her," one of them demands, snarling, three officers hurdling him backwards, kicking him so he plummets to his knees. He grunts, as one of them plows their foot into his ribcage, his body rocking forward.

"Don't you dare hurt him!" You bark, thrashing into the frame of one of the other officers, as they hold you steady by embracing your arms to your sides, in order to properly detain Kylo without any complications. 

The other thwacked him in the jaw with the brooding shaft of their baton, thumping him a couple times, as his head trashed and defeated groans escaped his beaten lips. Another officer twined his wrists, cuffing them as he begrudgingly succumbs to their orders.

"No..." You whimper, tears streaming down your flushed cheeks, as you squirm in the officers grasp. "Please, no."

It took three guards to lug his muscular, cumbersome frame off of the ground. He wobbled as they forced him around, dragging him away from the balcony. His teeth gleam crimson as he grins at you diabolically, allowing the officers to haul him away. 

The officer aided you downstairs shortly after. After they already beat Kylo to the pulp and wheeled him away in one of the police cars. 

Before you could even make it through the threshold leading to the main foyer of the club, Cardo was already stomping through the entrance, fists clenched.

"Get the fuck off of her!" He hissed to the officer, whom shrugged and threw his hands up in surrender, sauntering away from you. He glared at him as he approached you; choking on your own sobs, tears soaking your cheeks, breath hitching rabidly. 

He opened his mouth to comfort you, only for you to attack him with a hug, crying into his chest, burrowing your face into him as he staggers back with an astonished grunt. He hesitated for awhile, before he shushed you and rubbed your back, swaying you back and forth. 

"We have to go, okay?" He grumbled, shifting uncomfortably, as he continued kneading your back and cooing at you. 

"I don't wanna." You whine, words muffled into his shirt. You refuse to let go, and he sighs, hugging you back for a moment more before scooping you up and slinging you over his shoulder. 

You merely react, a small mewl crawling and dying at the back of your throat, as you swing defeatedly from over his shoulder, hair splaying around your deadpan, swollen face. He looped one arm around your waist and held you there firmly, as he pushed past the doors, carrying you solemnly to the Cadillac.

This is why he didn't want to bring you here. When you were unconscious just an hour before, the knights and Kylo all collaborated over the transmitter to deliberate a plan. A plan that involved huge, detrimental changes. Kylo was going to turn himself in for all of his crimes; and take the blame for all of it. All by himself. His hands were stained with the blood that all of them had shed. 

It was his plan in order to keep you, and even his brothers safe. It was a sacrifice he was willing to commit just to protect you from the hardships of this world. You were involved in all of these delinquent schemes, and he needed to cut those ties for you, once and for all. There were too many instances in which he could've lost you, and he could never hold himself accountable for introducing you to his venomous embrace. 

It took a tool on them all. He was their boss, brother, bestfriend. The person they learned to gravitate towards for guidance, advice, and the simple notion of security. 

Cardo slipped you into the backseat of the Cadillac, pulling you into him, as you coil up into a self-nurturing ball and nuzzle your head into the side of his thigh. His arm was draped over your body, patting your hip platonically, trying to comfort you as your sobs minimize to soft sniffles and fragmented breaths.

"Don't worry, hun." Cardo murmurs under his breath. "We'll take good care of ya."


	21. Inheritance

Snoke was dead. 

His disdainful name was being recited by universal broadcasting stations everywhere. Even countries abroad were chanting his name with detest and villainous contempt. 

Kylo Ren was undergoing the final and optimal trials that would jurisdict the amount of years he would spend enduring the corrupt treatment of prison. The media was smothering his trial, eating every detail of his case up like wild animals, thriving off of the entertainingly cutting-edge topic.

His lawyer was working tedious and long hours to assure that he would spend as little time behind bars as possible. The money he would acquire for obtaining Kylo's trust was exceeding— he was paying him millions to clear his name.

The money was futile when his lawyer was doing a horrendous job. 

Not only was Snoke's warped reputation crumbling with each depraved word uttered by the media about his cruel, egregious schemes. Kylo's was deteriorating along with his. His disposition was limited to evil, uncivil and purely malicious. He was labeled as an ignoble gangster that was wrongfully affiliated with the mafia. 

Even though truthfully, none of this was about the notorious mob, or the wealthy businesses he owned. It was about the lives he had stolen, and the life that was being snatched away from him, now.

He was perceived as an iniquitous villain by all. But not by you, or his devoted brothers. All of you saluted to the courageous feats that Kylo conveyed by sacrificing himself for the greater-good on your behalf's. He was a hero by nature, but a monster on the dotted line.

A tear cascades down your cheek and thunks into the murky liquid of your martini. Sending a meek little droplet of liquor flinging up and through the humid air of the familiarly opulent nightclub. The lavish club in which you met the infamous Kylo Ren, to be precise.

You were seated in the familiar booth, that he once draped his formidable frame over enigmatically, as he eyed you dauntingly from over the brim of his iced whiskey. You snort solemnly in amusement at the thought, as it resurfaced in your befuddled mind.

You occasionally gave your martini nimble sips, eyes glossy, as you stared down at the crumpled, folded piece of paper that you heedfully fiddled with in your grasp.

It was the paper that Kylo had crammed down your dress as he was belligerently hauled away by the unforgiving hands of the police.

You have yet to open it.

There was something... eerily off-putting and deranged about this... letter? Form? Note? That allowed trepidation to burrow deep within your stomach. It was distressing, considering that the hands that supplied you with the little consequential slip of paper were now twined and restrained by a pair of handcuffs.

Your curiosity has yet to best your weariness. You would need another round of drinks before you could ever amount to unraveling whatever treacherous words were scribbled out upon the trivial slip of crinkled paper.

That was before you received an unexpected message from an unknown number requesting to ideally visit you at Kylo's favorite club. The destination earned the instigator your trust.

The golden-trimmed doors at the entrance of the club swung open, an elderly man clad in a tawny trench coat sauntering through. Briefcase molded to his barred fist. Demeanor earnest and approachable. He tips his dignified tophat in a cordial greeting to the bartender, smiling with pursed lips, shuffling along the freshly-polished marble floors. 

His pale blue eyes raked you in, and his strides appeared to build in acceleration, as he increased his pace and averted his brisk movements towards your direction. You gulp, cheeks flushing crimson, as you shift uncomfortably in your seat.

"Can I help you?" You sneer, lethargically stirring your martini with your toothpick, eyeing him bleakly. 

He sighs. "You must be..." 

You blink at him calmly as he freezes and ponders. He stutters on his words, before murmuring your name, extending his hand.

You shake it dubiously, nodding leisurely, your face contorted into a bewildered grimace. He glances at the seat across from you nervously, shifting from waxed oxford to oxford.

"May I take a seat, um..." His eyes flicker to the pristine, shimmering ring cladding your finger. "Mrs. Ren?"

You choke on your own saliva, heaving and coughing into the sleeve of your satiny dress. "I- No, no. It's a promise ring." You correct feverishly, words hoarse with the coughs building in the back of your parched throat.

He clicks his tongue, about to respond, when you continue. "Of course. Take a seat, uh, sir?"

He slides into the booth, settling his briefcase in the corner, clearing his throat gruffly. "You can just call me John." 

You nod, narrowing your eyes, protectively crossing your arms. Surveying his respectable, amiable disposition, trying to fabricate his importance. 

"Okay, John..." You breathe heedfully, straightening your posture. "What's all this about?" You idly gesture to the briefcase.

He harbors his breath in his lungs for a moment, drab eyes darting to the leather briefcase, flashing back to you as he exhales heavily. 

"Hm?" You insist, taking a brisk sip of your martini, hoping the alcohol will clear your conscious and ease your suspicion.

"An Inheritance." He blurts. 

You blink. A beat. "An... Inheritance?" 

He nods curtly, thin lips awkwardly pursed, his gray-speckled goatee shifting with the roll of his lips, as he internally stitches a tethered response together.

"Before Snoke... unfortunately... passed..." He scoffs at himself, nervously twiddling with his wrinkly thumbs. "He wrote Kylo Ren as the inheriter of his fortune and a few other prosperities in his will, for if he were to ever pass." He says. "This bequest is futile and meaningless now that he's in prison. So, we talked things over, and he insisted that I render the entire fortune over to you."

Your stomach churns, heart stammering, as you blink at him in complete and utter perturbation. Inheritance? Your inheritance?

"And... you're his attorney?" You ask.

He nods stiffly, stretching the collar of his shirt, revealing the sweat that beads on his clammy flesh. He gulps.

"W-what does this fortune entail, exactly, sir?" You ask, your eyes frantically flickering to the corner of the bar, where Cardo sat perched and studying you with concern blossoming on his face.

He was here for extra support and protection, just in case things headed south, and the transmitter of the bizarre message you received was actually someone severely devoted in harming you in any way.

"Well." John sucks in a sharp breath, emitting a breathy, nervous chuckle through his nose. He grips the briefcase, gliding it over, swiftly unlatching the clasps. "Have a look for yourself." He says, nudging it over to you, as you swallow.

You heedfully lift the lid, the unpliable casing screeching as you peeled it back. An array of crisp, stacked papers sat tightly bunched and clamped in the briefcase. You glimpse John, and he permits you with a reassuring nod.

You scoop up the first paper, nibbling on your bottom lip. John decides to narrate everything, speaking lowly and stoically, clasping his hands and propping his elbows on the table.

"The fortune itself entails 47 million dollars," he mumbles, and your wide eyes gleam with astonishment as your jaw unhinges and mouth flops agape. 

You agilely place the paper back into the briefcase face down. "Million?" You rasp, chuckling in disbelief, as he nods. 

"Yes, ma'am." He hums in approval. "The inheritance also includes an estate. Multiple, actually. A villa on the northern countryside of France, a corporation-firm in Chicago, the nightclub back in Vegas, and a penthouse in Cali that is pending and waiting for his purchase validation. All of it could be yours."

It was... a lot to digest. In the matter of hours, you morphed from being the heartbroken, ex-assassin, that lost her lover due to the authorities, to being granted the opportunity to become one of Brooklyn's wealthiest occupants. It was exhilarating and mortifying all at once. 

"Theres only one obstacle blockading your chance at inheriting all of Snoke's wealth..." John continues, as you perk up, intrigued. Ready to conquer whatever trying feat would barricade your shot at pure opulence.

"His name is Enric Pryde." He informs, flipping the briefcase back over, clicking it shut as he strokes his jaw. "The only right-hand man of Snoke left standing."

This peaks your interest. Curiosity kindles like a flame of proclivity in your gut, as you observe him inquisitively. "I see... do you happen to know where I can find him?" You ask, feigning virtue, smiling innocently at him. 

He wordlessly untucks a square of alcohol-stained paper from the inner-pocket of his blazer. He slides it over to you discreetly, eyes trained on yours gravely. You charily glance around the club, assuring yourself nobody was paying attention, before scooping the piece of paper up and stuffing it down your dress. 

"You didn't hear it from me." He shrugs with a smug, prudent smirk. 

"Hear what?" You quip darkly, grinning as he chuckles mischievously at your feigned act. "Thanks, John."

His laughter fades, a subdued smile lingering on his thin, pale lips. "Anytime. Contact me when you're ready to legalize the transfer. I'll be anticipating your call, dear." He jeers, voice low and staid, as he lifts his briefcase and ascends from his seat. 

He pivots on his heel to exit the club, pausing once he started to stride away. Abruptly swiveling back around to face you. "And I suggest opening that letter from Mr. Ren." He instructs with rippled eyebrows, cocking his head towards the note you've been aimlessly peering down at throughout the night. 

You comply, eyes lingering on him heedfully, before you reluctantly unfold the note that Kylo had rendered you on that egregious night. Something dangerously heinous sparkled in your eyes when they raked over the words scribbled out in his delicate cursive handwriting.

The note was simple, but crucially fundamental. The paper in itself was trivial, but the words were thick and hefty with meaning. 

Tesoro,  
You know what you have to do.

And you did.

If you wanted that Inheritance, you had to earn it, the immoral way— the way your demented, sinister man would. 

You adjust the flowy, satin sleeves of your body-wrenching dress, smiling diabolically, wobbling slightly in your heels as you ascend from your seat. Cardo springs up from his own seat, trailing behind you, as you sway your hips and strut to the exit. 

"Where we headed?" He asks, as he slips into the drivers seat of the Cadillac, and you, glide into the passengers seat.

You grin at him giddily, pinching the portable slice of paper John had given you between two fingers, inattentively handing it to him. "Looks like we have some unfinished business," you observe, biting your lip, as Cardo chuckles prudently and ignites the engine. 

It rumbles to life, the engine roaring as he zips out of the parking lot. Your gun slides across the dashboard, and you scoop it up, accustomed to the heaviness of the warped metal. You unswitch the safety lock, cocking the gun, waving it around limply in your lap.

Cardo glances at you with raised eyebrows. "Care to explain what this is about?" 

You gingerly pinch his chin, angling his head to idly face you. You smile dauntingly. "We're gonna be loaded, baby." You purr, quipping, flashing him your pearly grin as his breath hitched. 

The car speeds down the eerily vacant avenue, the amber street lights flashing by in bleak spurts. Apparently, Pryde was situated in a modernized mobile home on the outskirts of the city. Small, portable, lavish. 

The Cadillacs tires hissed softly as it rolled to a leisure stop near the back of the mobile home— that was decently tucked away behind an abundance of tethered brush and looming pine trees. Cardo left the vehicle parked adjacent to a quarry of swaying ferns, hiding the glistening black SUV with its long tendrils of overgrown plantation.

You snaked through the garden, rounding a cement statue, engraved with designs too lavish to be temporary, like the mobile home was set to be. The pale moonlight was your only source of light, as it illuminated the outdoor foyer with its dull sapphire sheen.

Once you reach the back porch, you freeze, holding out a hand to halt Cardo. You could articulate muffled words being rendered from the opposite side of the back door. You peak through the window installed next to the door, squinting. You smirk, when you peer through the polished glass and perceive Pryde perched at a desk, typing arduously into the keyboard of his Macbook.

You reach down to unbuckle the straps of your heels, staggering a bit, steadying yourself by placing your palm on Cardo's chest. 

"What are you doing?" He whispers, eyebrows furrowed, as you grunt and snatch your heels off of your tired feet. You hand them over to him, as he begrudgingly cradles them to his chest, confused. 

You hush him with your finger pressed to your puckered lips, hand twisting the door handle leisurely, haphazardly shoving the door open. Fortunately for you, the hinges merely produced a squeak. You tiptoed across the hardwood floor apprehensively, shoulders tense, body cowered, as you inched through the picturesque foyer. Teetering towards the office that Pryde was nestled up in.

You thought it would be hard to track the man and pierce a bullet through his skull.

Apparently he was just as feeble-minded as his wrinkly, withered boss, Snoke.

Because he merely had a second to process the invasion of his home before you had the muzzle of your gun lodged into the back of his gray-peppered scalp. 

He met your gaze through the reflection of his computer screen with pure terror beaming in his eyes. You taunt him with the tilt of your head, smiling with faux sympathy.

"Surprise, bitch." You muse. "I bet you thought you've seen the last of me."


	22. Only the Beginning

"I got the job done." Your breath quivered, clammy digits propping the phone to your ear.

Images of Pryde's lifeless, chummy, crimson-oozing body distorted your vision. The blood that splattered from the gaping, pudgy, raw gauge in his head was peppering your sweaty face, cascading down your chin.

"Good." John says, humming earnestly. You swallow when he lets out a breathy chuckle. "I'm Impressed. Ren was right about you. He said you were his little fighter." He rasps.

You smile coyly, snorting, as you picture Kylo conversing with the peculiarly-clad attorney, smirking as he reminisces on your snark. He had faith in your devotion.

"He already has the Inheritance alternated to suit your interest, so now we just need to wait until word of Prydes death spreads on its own. Then the money, and all of his estates, will be under your name."

You charily nibble on your lip, sucking it between clattering teeth. You were a bit shaken up after tonight's events, that you egregiously committed. "Thank you, John." You stutter, plucking at your cuticles. "For everything."

He sighs. "Of course. Now; before you bask in the wealth, there's one more thing... or, person, Ren has suggested you take care of."

Your heart thumps. "Who?"

He barks out a sinister laugh.

The name he utters next, makes your stomach sink, a droit of trepidation bubbling in your gut. Something... ignoble harvesting inside of you was saying this was only the beginning of all things immoral.

***

After the authorities grasped onto the case of Pryde's murder— your victory was inevitable. They passed his gory, abhorrent death as gang affiliation, that they refused to dig up. The odds were working in your favor, as his death gets burrowed down deep and labeled as untamable crime. 

Long story short, there is nothing the police can succumb to in order to crack the case of Pryde's death. They could only presume him and Snoke had tampered with the wrong heinous crowds, and got themselves mixed up with an ugly, illicit business.

The money was yours. All 47 million dollars, all of the estates, businesses, and belongings of Snoke. Every fucking bit of Snoke's fortune was pridefully yours. Including the spacious office in New York that once belonged to him. 

As of right now, you were undergoing the tedious legal process of rendering all five remaining men equal amounts of the fortune you've obtained. They all deserved a steady portion of it, for the treacherous and immoral labors they harbored as a recruit of the infamous Snoke. 

"It could use some work." You chirp, hands trivially planted to your hips, as you surveyed the grand, picturesque office.

The boys were stacked up, drinking bottles upon bottles of luxurious Bourbon— that they found in the wine-cellar housed in the back of Snoke's office, that you had fortuitously acquired. Ap'lek and Ushar were still rummaging through, meticulously picking the bottle they wanted to indulge in for the evening.

Cardo was swiveling around in the office chair perched at the desk that once belonged to Snoke. He was giddily chugging whiskey by the bottle, eyeing your new office. It was similar to the office tucked away in the depths of the casino back in Vegas— that was also under your name.

You sigh, shuffling over to the desk, heedlessly plopping down one of the boxes you crammed full of treasures for your new office. You hopped up on the desk, shimmying on top, kicking off your heels and flattening your back on the cold surface. Peering up at the opulently-carved, elevated ceilings. Your hair cascaded around your face, as a tired smile lingered on your lips.

The chair squeaked as Cardo sat up, legs spread widely, bottle of whiskey dangling limply in his grasp. He whispers your name, and you hum in acknowledgment, angling your head to face him with that same fatigued smile ghosting your lips. He wordlessly nudges the bottle to your lips, feeding you a brisk swig, as you grimace at the acidic taste.

"Let's make a toast." Ushar exclaims, as he emerges from the wine-cellar, two bottles of vodka in one leather-garbed hand, an assemble of shot glasses in the other.

All of you complied, stumbling away from your slothful positions to meet on the sectional couch in the center of the colossal, luxurious office. You squished yourself in between two of them, shimmying and wriggling to get comfortable, as all of them grunt compactly to fit upon the couch.

Ushar leisurely handed everyone a shot glass. Vigilantly pouring an abundance of vodka in each of your glasses, taking his time to make his rounds around the couch. He pours himself a glass, easing himself down, grunting.

He raises his glass, and all of you follow to oblige. He smirks. "To a new beginning." 

***

The Tweed blazer was housed around your arms, clinging onto the dampness that surfaced there with pure, blatant dread. The matching Tweed skirt embraced the supple curves of your hips, accentuating the flesh of your ass, cladding your frame in tantalizing ways. 

Your disposition was dignified, respectable, tranquil. Even though internally, your chest fizzed and gyrated like a chaotic helix of unease. You sat perched on the domineering end of the desk. One leg draped over the other, stiletto-clad foot bouncing gingerly.

Cardo emerges from the threshold, followed by a nimble knock on the door. "He's here." He says, supplying you with a flare of reassurance soaring in his eyes.

You nod, smoothing out your skirt. "Send him in." You breathe, snarking at an attempt to appease the coil of apprehension wreathing in your chest.

He nods compliantly, pushing himself out of the way. Poe Dameron shoots him a glare, before sauntering heedfully through the door.

Your features cork into a grimace, upper lip twitching. You subconsciously straighten your posture when he scoots into the seat on the opposing end of your new desk.

Cardo grants you one final look of reassurance, before clamping the door shut, the latch locking. 

"I thought you were dead." You sneer, biting the words through gritted teeth.

He clears his throat, adjusting his cheap, slender tie. "Nice to see you, too." He greets gruffly, spearing you with a look.

"I have zero tolerance for quips today." You growl calmly, twiddling with your thumbs. Trying to withhold that perverse facade, shoulders relaxing. "I'm not your friend, you're simply here for business relations." 

Poe scoffs, those chocolatey-brown eyes glowing with a new profound darkness that was so foreign upon his face. "Look at yourself." He snarls, stare patronizing. "This isn't you." 

You dart up from your seat, ascending forcefully, hands bracing the desk as you loom over a nervous-looking Poe. "You don't know a goddamn thing about me, Dameron." You mused calmly, voice eerily resilient and pacified.

His nostrils flare, "I took care of you after the death of your parents, but I don't know you? You're fucking cheap," he hisses your name.

"Would you like a fucking reward? For lying straight to my face for years upon years? If anyone here is cheap, it's you. You're a lousy excuse of a friend."

You bask in the wounded expression that tows upon his warm, tan-beige face. His eyebrows crinkle together, his lip wobbles, his dark eyes cast to the side, to peer solemnly out the floor to ceiling windows.

The moment of stuffy silence allows you to mollify yourself, and the twinge of guilt nipping at your gut. You adjust your blazer sheepishly, lowering yourself back down into your seat. You clear your throat, and brown, glossy eyes flicker to your face.

"You've changed." He murmurs, words shaky, breaths fanning out like the hitching whir of a broken record. "You're just like him. Just like that fucking monster!" He roars, standing up, pivoting and collecting his coat over the crook of his elbow. 

You stagger up to follow, muttering commands to Cardo and Ap'lek through the transmitter you keep tucked away in the pocket of your blazer. You lethargically trail Poe as he nears the door, your hips swaying, arms crossed, as you pause in the center of the room.

Just before he reaches the door, the dark silhouettes of the two men you called for lurk beyond the frosty glass of the offices corridor. They shuffle through, earning you an incredulous look from Poe, as he scrambles backwards in bewilderment.

They both snatch him by an arm, swiveling him to face you, holding him firm and belligerent. You smile wickedly; trying to contain the heightening bliss of dominance, power, and glory. All of it was heavy and tactile, weighing down your chest, with an essence of pure gratification. 

"Say it again." You insist, pinching his jaw softly, smirk loitering on your lips.

His chest swells with his deep, reluctant breath. That darkness that pervaded his eyes just moments before, was replaced by fear.

He swallows. "You're just like him."

Your smile deepens, as you hum contently, and stroke his chin with your thumb. "Great minds do think alike." You taunt, taking an agile step back. You tilt your head to observe him.

"I guess I should do things Kylo's way, then, If I'm so much like him." You tease dauntingly, raising your eyebrows, as he thrashes against Cardo and Ap'lek.

"Please, don't." He whines, eyes wide, pupils dilated in anguish, quivering with fright as you snatch one of your stilettos off of your foot and take another step closer.

You pause, before slashing his cheek with the keen point of your heel, listening as he howls in pain and tries to wriggle out of the strong hands restraining him. A long, rigid gash oozes blood from his cheek, his eyes swollen with brimming tears. 

You smirk, pondering, internally determining his fate. You were meant to kill him— and although he did you immorally dirty in so many ways, you harbored a soft spot for Poe. Just like the soft spot Kylo had for you.

Your eyes brighten when you come to terms with your spiraling notion, eyes darting to Cardo. "Dispose of him. Do what you must." You order bleakly, nodding, as Cardo smirks at your suggestions and you smirk back.

They haul him away, as he thrashed and squirmed, screaming in protest, his shrills reverberating around the hall as they lug him away from your office.

You let out a deep breath you hadn't meant to harbor once he was gone. Your heart stammered, as your clammy hand circled the telephone plastered to your desk.

You skim through the array of papers planted on your desk, surfing for the one with the prisons phone number printed on it. You scoop it up, arduously typing the digits into the keypad of the phone. You stand up straighter when it starts to ring.

A grizzly, inhospitable mans voice greets you. Asking for your information, and the reasoning behind your call. You shift on your feet.

"I would like to schedule a visitation, please."

The man clears his throat. "What's the name of the prisoner, dear?" He asks dolefully.

A beat.

"Kylo Ren."


	23. Il Mia Amore

There was a tormenting, gyrating apprehension coiling in your gut. This profound sense of untamed trepidation plateaued in your core, when the boisterous clank of the prisons main corridor whirred open. Dragging along the cold, filthy tarmac. 

The space was flourished with an array of disheveled, chipping cells. Where leaky sewage pipes dripped grimy water, and coated each cell with a layer of mildew. Where the only source of light was a gloomy rectangular window that bestowed the pale, midday sunshine. It was freakishly cold, the air hefty and freezing enough to make your skin crawl and your teeth clatter. 

The guard begrudgingly escorts you down the hall. Where men with jagged teeth and half-wired broken jaws sneer obscenities and coo lewdness at you, as you saunter down the hallway, trying to withhold a fearless facade.

It's dark, and deranged. Warped in all of the secluded, scalloped-brick corners. It was scary. Shadows seemed to lurk in every crevice, danger looming upon every cold surface. No— It was scarier than scary, it was petrifying. Your spine quivered in fear, as prisoners continued to bark bawdy remarks at you, as you strut calmly by.

The flirtatious venom being spewed by the prisoners went unacknowledged by the guard, whom seemed so accustomed to this corrupt lifestyle, that he couldn't even bring himself to reprimand them. 

Every fiber of your being has swelled to become increasingly vigilant, all fives senses heightened and fully alert. 

The clacks of your heels could be pinpointed miles away— the ginger thuds reverberating around the opened-space, floor-to-ceiling abundance of cells. The third level of prisoners could even articulate the presence of a woman in their domain by the mere sound.

The guards expression was mundane, as his digits pock into the keypad plastered next to the second corridor. The rattle of beasts howling in their cages, and the shouts of raunchy prisoners, all fading to be just a dark memory once you slipped past the threshold winding towards the visitation rooms.

You follow the drab guards lead. A piece of strength is restored within, now that the vigorous screams had vanished to be just a distant echo. 

The hallway was white. Pure, clean, blinding, white. The walls appeared virtuously scrubbed and tended to, the fluorescent white lights beaming overhead. It was unnervingly clean and quaint. That is, before the ruckus of the bustling visitation room starts to bleed through the underpass of the third heavily secured corridor you've entered.

The guard flashes you a doleful, unprompted, bleak look. Eyes hooded, thin lips pursed. "You already went over the rules online. Correct?" He asks languidly, nearly sluggish.

"Yep." You exhale through puffed cheeks, nodding briskly. Your clammy fist tightens around the leather strap of your designer purse. Adjusting it timidly, as it slings over your shoulder.

"Ight." He snarfs blandly, fingers jabbing the access code into the keypad. "You have twenty minutes." He reminds, shuffling out of the way to allow you access into the visitation area, that was swarmed with outlandish folk and dull-looking guards.

You were assigned booth number 16, the secluded booth sectored at the end of the interminable rows of seats. You apprehensively tread your way over, the heedful reluctance of your stride earning you a few weary glances from the trashy prisoners on the opposing ends of the glass-barriers.

You bow your head sheepishly, avoiding eye-contact with the callous, cutthroat stares training on your every hesitant mechanism. Fortunately, your feeble, baby deer-like legs were successful in sustaining you for long enough to carry you to your seat in the corner. Three booths adjacent to yours were vacant, a long stanchion blockading the rest of the visiting booths. Strange.

Tediously, the hatch of the colossal corridor on the opposite side of the glass clicked. You were submerged in your own turmoil, threatening to drown in your own unease, as everything appears to freeze for a moment. No rustling beyond the door, no movement. 

And then, the hinges of the corridor let out an ear-piercing screech, sliding open robustly. It was no secret that the man whom begrudgingly filed out of the compact hallway was no other than the notorious Kylo Ren, his ignoble disposition darkening the entire visitation room. Conversations died, frightful murmurs sweeping over the space.

Your pulse skyrocketed at the mere sight of his burley, brawny, thunderous frame, that had been warped to hulk in size. He obtained another slab of muscle buckling around his toned abdomen, the solid, hunky flesh peaking through the orange jumpsuit that clads his monstrous and formidable build. For the past two months, he has clearly been an advocate for working those harrowing muscles of his out. You swore he could shred each guard apart limb by limb if he so pleased.

He ducked to bypass the brim of the threshold, glowering, teeth barred and stretched into a blood-curdling sneer. Two guards were posted on either side of his rugged frame, hauling and lurching him through the corridor, belligerently lugging him to his designated seat just across from you.

A peculiar conjunction of dread and exhilaration harvested in your gut, spiraling and wreathing like a corkscrew, as the guards shoved and tusked his large frame around. A sweaty, coiled strand of his inky jet-black hair cascaded down his forehead, dangling just before his underbrow, beadlets of sweat dripping from the furrow.

He puckers his lips and blows up at the tendril of tousled hair, wafting it out of his scarred, bruise-blemished face. He got beat down to the pulp, the guards made good on that speculation. His left eye was swollen, sinking with deprivation, purples and yellows loitering on the satiny flesh. His scar ran red and puffy in one long, jagged line, from the arch of his brow to the dip of his collarbone.

He had the walk, the talk, every sultry and suave move down to the T. Strutting, trudging, muscles flexing beneath layers of coruscating oranges, words snarf and grim as he hisses complaints to the handsy guards.

That's my fucking man, you thought, suppressing a growing grin.

He supplied the eerily, heedfully silent room with a primal grunt of irritation— everyone was sent scrambling to continue the feats they were once tasking before he bombarded the room with his exigent, domineering presence.

When he plopped into the metal seat opposite of you, the loud shrill of titanium scraping across the cement floors resounded around the room, as well as the hefty thud of his body weight plummeting into the creaky chair.

The crisp, wrinkly-orange sleeves of his jumpsuit were smudged up to cling over the ridges of his hulky biceps— revealing the complex canvas of his inked up, tattooed arms, dark and inquisitive designs peppering his paler skin. The skin that has lacked sunlight, from places elsewhere other than the compact window and the ritualistic forty-five minutes of outdoor activity, for two painstakingly long months.

Desolation radiated from every single pore upon his mole-speckled, slashed up face. His jaw was clenched and screwed tautly, deadpan hazel eyes scrutinizing you, as the guards bound his already cuffed wrists to the table, anchoring him down. Even though he could easily free himself from the restraints with the meekest jerk of his wrists.

You scooped up the telephone mounted to the wall adjacent to you, lips wobbling, as you propped it eagerly to your ear. He follows your brisk mechanisms, by leisurely, mundanely, pawing at the phone. He cocks a jaded brow, elbows planted to the table, as he looms forward and eyes you up greedily. Limply dangling the phone to his ear. Rings still cladding his fingers, that tap lethargically into the phone.

His expression was inscrutable for a moment, his menace torrid enough to burn and shrivel your insides. Those plush lips cork into a smug smile, eyes raking in your frame.

His daunting smirk deepens. "You look like a million dollars, tesoro." He purrs, quipping, referring to the designer clothing cladding your jittery body.

You snort. "I wish I could say the same about you, big guy." You retort, tilting your head teasingly, eyebrows raising. "You look like a slab of pure muscle."

He huffs, a low, ravenous chuckle rumbling in the back of his throat, his adam's apple bobbing roughly. His calloused thumb untucks from the phone to stroke his rugged five o'clock shadow. There was an idle pause of silence, as you both digest the others altered appearances, reflecting on every calamitous event that had led you to these propositions.

Your fingers skim over the diamond pendants clamping to your luxurious necklace. He surrendered it all, just to be locked away, twined and chained within the barred walls of a cage designed for undetainable animals. You hated seeing him this way. Except for the beard speckling his jaw— that you could willfully accommodate to.

You swallow— swiping your palette clean, nurturing your conscious. "We need to get you out of here." You whisper haphazardly, eyes darting around heedfully, assuring yourself the guards were busy elsewhere rather than snooping in on your conversation. "What are we going to do?"

Kylo pauses, before allowing that prudent smirk to scuffle up on his chapped lips, again. He just blinked, basking beneath the artificial white lights. His raven, middle-parted, silky-slick locks glistened underneath the lights faux glow. It was refreshing, glorious, a feigned halo of holiness spiraling around his dark main.

"You know me." He snides defensively, clenching his fist. "And you know that I always have a plan." 

You shudder, nodding exuberantly. "Y-yes, I know, but you're in the most heavily guarded prison in the state!" You whisper shout, seething, eyes wide and glossy.

"You're so right." He husks back, tsking, clicking his tongue, baritone voice bland and nearly taunting. He plucks his cuticles.

"So?" You blubber, voice hopeful, eyes doe and pleading with faith. You nibble your bottom lip, anticipation weaving brashly in your chest.

"Leave the plan up to me." He demands softly, nodding curtly to himself, shifting in his seat. "You're going to have to be strong, and patient... and you're going to have to be a very good girl for me while I'm locked up. Okay?" He coos, arching a consequential brow.

You nod without haste. "Of course."

"Good." He murmurs, voice breathy and tantalizing, as he narrows his eyes into slits and examines you thoroughly. "And there's one final thing I need from you, il mia amore." He teases, smirking salaciously, rolling his tongue adequately as he perfects an accent.

You blush, cheeks fused and flourished with a coy rouge, that lights your skin aflame with longing. "Anything." You whisper, the devotion prominently etched into your soft tone.

His bear-paw of a hand extends to the best of its abilities with the restraints, flattening on the glass. You gulp, blinking away tears, raising your infeasibly smaller hand to flatten over his. An inculpable bile churns in your gut, as you feel the warmth of his palm emanate from the broad pane of glass. He scoots closer, eyes training on yours with that intensifying earnesty that had always unnerved you.

"You're going to finish, what I started."

The end of Part 1: Dangerous Affection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A future sequel is planned for this fic. Contact me on wattpad or tumblr, @ kyloewok.


End file.
